


Love on a Wire

by UlternateFreak



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Adolescent Sexuality, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Bad Parenting, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexual Michelle Jones, Boys In Love, Boys' Love, Divorce, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Has Issues, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Gay Peter Parker, Girls Kissing, Harley Keener Needs a Hug, Horny Teenagers, House Party, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealousy, Lesbian Character, Love Confessions, M/M, Pansexual Character, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Relationship(s), Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Photographer Peter Parker, Slow Burn, Teenage Drama, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 36,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25835503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlternateFreak/pseuds/UlternateFreak
Summary: Between his parent's divorce, and his breakup with golden-girl, Gwen Stacy - designated, on and off again, asshole - Harley Keener, finds himself feeling rather lost.But a chance encounter with Peter Parker - a boy he had only ever hated before now - begins to change that.Or, the Midtown High School AU inspired by the song: Black Sheep by Metric (Scott Pilgrim).In which Peter Parker might just be what Harley Keener needs to find even the smallest trace of happiness.
Relationships: Harley Keener & Miles Morales, Harley Keener & Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Gwen Stacy, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Liz Allan & Betty Brant, Liz Allan & Michelle Jones & Gwen Stacy, Liz Allan/Michelle Jones, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Harley Keener
Comments: 39
Kudos: 159





	1. Hello Again, Friend of a Friend

**Author's Note:**

> If you have gotten past that shitty summary, than I thank you. I really do suck as those.  
> But as stated, this is a High school AU in which everyone is either 16 or 17, hence the warnings for brief sexual and underage drinking content.
> 
> Though partially inspired by Black Sheep (And A Walk to Remember-?) - many themes have been carried over from a vast number of places, being that of my own life, 10 Things I Hate about You, Heathers, and various hours of Degrassi and Skins. I live, and thrive, for that teenage bullshit. And at last, I shall try my hand at it.

Harley doesn't love Gwen Stacy.

Though he does care for her.

There's too much history there, and in-between, for him not to. And while that caring runs deep - further than he has ever cared to admit to himself.

He knows that he had only ever sought after her again, so intensely, due to his parents.

She had been a means to an end - a definite return to that time before Summer - before the break. Before the divorce...

His mother had liked Gwen - his father too. They had often joked to one another about their future. The in-separation of the two being rooted there since seventh grade. They're actual try at a relationship marked between freshmen year and the start of their junior year. Summer having had just ended.

"Inevitable," his mother had often remarked. Her mind over the matter going as far as to have had planned their wedding colors. A spring wedding, naturally. Lilac and silver.

At the time, it had been entirely mortifying - now, Harley had only wished to hear his parents tease him as they once had. Only they hardly laughed around one another nowadays. And Gwen is less of a future - barely even a present - with Winter drawing nearer each day. Essentially reminding him that yes, another Summer had, in fact, come and gone. And soon, Fall too, would come to fruition.

" _Black sheep, come home - black sheep, come home..._ ," he begins slowly, the keys of the piano sounding harsh in the lone and quiet auditorium, " _hell-o again, friend of a friend.._.-"

Its melancholic - and off-key. And he knows that. Though he can only play that very first verse - the notes barely even recognizable to the ear. And it's to be expected. He doesn't actually play piano. Nor does he feel inclined to do so.

"Geez - who died?"

Harley isn't at all perturbed by that voice. With the goings as they are, it's near impossible to find oneself alone in the theater department, let alone the schools auditorium during the day. Not that he had frequented the place much. He simply knew the ins and outs of the building as a go to escape if leaving campus had proved too futile.

And yet he had hoped against the odds that perhaps he could simply have a moment besides himself. Even if only a minute longer than the one he had been given.

"I'm not in the mood," he says to Peter Parker, who comes in through the access door - which sits just off from the main stage, amidst the first row. The light from behind only shadowing the younger boys face as he struts himself forward.

"Its a joke, Harley. Relax."

The junior casually lifts himself onto the stage then, forgoing the auditorium steps, which Miss Potts cautiously advised against doing each and every time. Not that anyone would ever listen.

"I am allowed to joke, you know." The amusement in his voice lingers, though Harley hardly stirs - nor takes any true notice of. Instead, he sighs and begins to shuffle his things around. Bag ready and pressed into his hands in seconds time. It's a dramatic display, he knows - yet it's a much needed shift in an otherwise dwindling atmosphere. And God would be a cruel and unjust creature if he were to deny him theatrics in a goddamn theater of all places.

"You don't have to go-" Peter then says, though he doesn't make to stop him. Instead, he casually shoves his hands into his pockets and lingers. "I wasn't trying to be annoying-"

"It comes naturally then?"

If Harley is surprised by his frankness, then Peter Parker must be physically floored. Else his crestfallen face is but a mere trick of the light. And Harley's only partially - if near half - of an asshole than usual.

"Sorry," he eventually says - his eyes straying, tough not taking heed of anything in particular, "really, that was uncalled for-"

"You're not sorry," Peter says firstly, "you always say sorry. But you never mean it."

"And how would you know that?"

"You hate me."

Its simple, the way Peter says it. And yet, like everything else in Harley's life - it's anything but. He doesn't hate Peter Parker, though he certainly acts like he does. Had convinced himself that he had. And perhaps that convince-ment had gone further than intended, leaking it's way into a near truth that had fed into a distasteful indifference between them.

"Well," Harley says, the pause over the matter having had lingered for only a second or two longer than necessary, "you hate me. So what's your point?"

The scoff Peter releases is harsh and dry, echoing forth into the theater in rivets. Much as the piano had done.

"Hate you?" He says, "I don't hate you. I mean, are you a bit infuriating? Yes. Was I upset that you hid my gym clothes that one time? Also yes. Did you once steal my answers in chem-?"

"Right. Clearly you hold no animosity whatsoever-"

"I don't hate you," Peter repeats, "though I have been set on ignoring you for the most part."

The rebuttal to that comment is silent, though Harley's face must ask it in droves considering the way in which Peter seems to study him.

And its apparent - really, yet another epiphany within the span of a half hour - that the two haven't spoken like this to each other since their photography class of last year. Not without jests, or the metaphorical knives protruding from their eyes each time they had happened into the same lane. Their final project, in which they had been paired to, had been a near failure - with Mr. Barton handing them a rather generous, and delusional looking, graded C minis for their efforts.

"I don't know," Peter continues with a shrug, "clearly I'm no good at ignoring you-"

"I hadn't noticed."

"Course you hadn't. You've been too busy hating me to notice anything about me. And all because I asked Gwen to homecoming."

"She was my girlfriend-"

"You took MJ-"

"Well, we were on a break then-"

"Ew, no," Peter says, "don't be a Ross, Harley-"

"What? I don't even know what that means."

"How do you not-? Whatever - so you broke up, and I asked her. As a friend. What was I supposed to do? Let her mope about because you decided to call it quits a week before? Do you not realize how hard she took it?"

"I know," he says, "but... - I really didn't mean to hurt her like that."

The sigh he releases is true and deeply rooted. With the familiar edgings of a defensive streak kicking in from the amount of vile that surfaces from having had said those words.

The old Harley, known in spades from back in the days of Spring, would have had bolted by now. The shop door being the closest means of an exit. Hell, current Harley wasn't exactly keened in the idea of standing here either. Yet he had remained. With his fists balled into the hem line of his maroon colored hoodie.

"I knew that the two of you were just friends... She always talked about you. I had just felt bad about it, you know?"

"And you took it out on me," Peter nods. "'Cause that's entirely healthy."

"I thought this was about how you didn't hate me?"

"I don't hate you."

The admittance is odd to say in the least - with Harley still on the cusp of deciding whether or not to leave, and Peter, for once, keeping an attentive eye on him without any sense of perceived animosity.

"Not even a little?" He asks. "Even after I tripped you and you broke your nose? Or when I hid your math-geek jacket-?"

"I knew that was you! Everyone was trying to convince me that the janitor had tossed it into the trash can-!"

"In my defense, you told me that I looked like a chicken without a head-"

"Only when you run."

The scoff - just as the last - is deep and garish, echoing - but sounding much more rich and moving than the hollowish sound from before. And, unlike then, it's followed by a laugh - one that isn't of Peter's own doing, or Harley's, but a fine mixture of both boys lost in raw diversions. Two sides of the same fuse.

"You know," Harley tries for again, "I did feel a bit guilty about it."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he nods, "dragging Mr. Coulson's name like that. Sheesh."

"You're a cheeky bastard Harley Keener, you know that?"

The laughs gradually crescent into a peak - the after weight settling into a series of light giggles that flutter about the air between them. Falling into a somber state of ease once a new breathe of air had been needed. A state that had collectively pulled at the two still laced in close proximity.

"So," Peter begins again. "with the risk of sounding like I care - are you okay?"

Again, the rebuttal is surely seen - though Harley certainly makes haste to try and remove it. Directing his mind elsewhere, in order to skew any such physical manifestation from crossing his features. "What do you mean?"

"You've kinda been out of sorts lately. Everyone's noticed."

"Oh," he says, "awesome."

"But that's okay. You know? We all get those days. But... - are you, actually, okay?"

Harley, despite the continuous feeling of squandering self loathing, smiles and nods in affirmation. Which Peter returns easily enough. And yet - the way in which his face settles - well, Harley isn't entirely sure what is actually mirrored there. For within his deep brown eyes, lays some hidden affliction. A sort of odd budding that Harley all at once decides he doesn't care for in the least.

"Yeah. It's nothing."

"Its not nothing," Peter says. "Maybe to me, or to other people. But not to you."

Sincerity isn't a keen aspect of life for Harley Keener. Neither is it a welcoming admittance when others gift it to him. And yet, with Peter - really, with how his heart swells thinking back to where he had been only minutes before now - he breaks. Even if only in slights.

"Its my parents."

"The divorce?" Peter asks, opting for a shrug a second after, "there aren't many secrets in this school. Surely you must know that by now."

"Right," he nods, "well, yeah - my mom started selling parts of the furniture - _her_ furniture. She even bought me a new desk. As if that just solves everything, you know?"

He nods, though knows he doesn't necessarily have to. Though Peter manages to meet it with his own, his motions urging him to continue. But only if he had so wished to do so.

"I tried to build it today - but it got so damn frustrating. I couldn't get the screws in right - and... I broke it. I took it to the garage and just, destroyed it."

Harley isn't exactly sure what he expects from this confession. Most of the time, he doesn't - not when it comes to people and their reactions to things he may say or do- but especially with Peter of all people. So when the younger teen leans in, he's hardly had a chance to process it. And his body simply goes slack against his frame - too late in noticing the arms that have come to wrap around him.

"That really sucks, Harley."

The words are cool. Yet the skin beneath his ear trickles in warmth, spreading outward and skirting against the corners of his eyes and nose.

"I'm... - I can't entirely say that I understand what you're going through, but it's terrible that you have to deal with these things."

"Its hard," he says into Peter's shoulder, which only pulls in closer as his voice filters out, "I - I'm so mad, at everything. But sad - ...and I just need it all to stop."

Peter pulls back at that, swiftly - though not in total separation. Rather he continues to hover close - the feeling of pressed warmth sustained and pleasantly comforting.

"What does that mean?"

"Everything keeps moving forward- and I just wish it could stop, or revert back."

"Time doesn't work that way."

"I know. I just wish that it could."

It sounds pleasantly pathetic out loud, though the weight of those words seem to decrease once they're spoken. As if they had essentially been crafted out of actual mass and volume. And not as a creation of thought and weak-hearted affections.

"Why aren't you trying for _her_ anymore?"

The question is nearly mute. Though it isn't entirely unexpected. Though no one outside of Peter has had ample courage to ask it directly from the source.

"I messed up," Harley says in earnest. "And she's trying this whole independent thing now. I owe her that. Plus I'm trying to work on myself-"

"For her?"

"For me. If I'm only changing for her then it's only pretend. And I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not."

"That's oddly uncharacteristic of you," Peter smiles, "I'm impressed. The great Harold Keener improving himself."

"Is that a compliment?" Harley asks, ignoring the use of his legal name for the sake of clarity. That - and his mind refusing to find any strength to argue with. "I never thought I'd live to see the day."

Peter's smile remains, bright and full of every bit of terrifying truth that Harley finds sickeningly contagious.

Though he doesn't permit the remainder of his answer over Peter's question to complete itself.

He isn't in love with Gwen Stacy is how that entire truth goes after all. But Peter Parker doesn't need to know that.

"Everything will be fine," the other then says to the nothing stilled between them, "it's like you always say, challenges are nothing to you. Harley Keener always wins."


	2. Waiting for the World to End

The night had calmed as the gathered 'goodbyes' had been met and offered. The echoes of light pattered feet dwindling out into faint nothings - from polished carpets to the newly dew-ed lawns of the familiar, and beckoning, 2 a.m. trek back home.

  
Harley could very well see the faces of those filtering out into the early morning. Each a familiar enough classmate - or occasional straggler of a friend. Drifting off into the neighborhood streets and back into their own private, and provincial, lives.

Gwen, catching his gaze, had gifted him a humble and weak wave, her eye lids heavy - and body hosting a small crooked limp to her walk.

Sighing, Harley's hand had reached around to the butt of the cigarette he had bummed off of Miles Morales.

Now usually Harley wasn't really one to smoke. Though he had been known to occasionally partake when certain nights had presented themselves.

He supposed it due to his mother. Often he had caught her with a cigarette pressed between her lips. And he had always wondered what sort of reason had proved necessary into earning one. Honestly, it was a necessary relief that had garnered such a habit. Though truly - partially - boredom in some regards. A boredom that had come into being after having had the time to acknowledge and feel life's cold and depressing touch.

"Aren't you cold?" Liz Toomes asks, peeking out from the sliding door. Which sits just across from where Harley had been standing.

"Not really," he says. And again, mainly due to his mother - in a more positive direction - he asks, "do you - need any help cleaning?"

"That's okay. Ned and Betty already tidied. The rest can wait till morning."

He nods, and watches as the daintier girl levels her own feet - hovering between the patio and open doorway. Her mind in partial halves as she continues to eye him.

"You want me to go?" He asks.

"No," she flushes - her lips a tad too loose to be lying, "just - how are you getting home?"

Harley motions to his skate board along the wall of the gutter pipe. Its sleek chrome and crimson shine apparent even in the low lighting of the yard.

"I'm good," he assures to the girls now pensive, and suspicious, look, "really. Sides, my house is only three blocks away from here."

"Okay," she nods.

Though despite the reassurance, Liz stays. Her mind seemingly made as she comes to stand closer to him, tugging her loose sweater tightly as she does. And she looks rather content despite the cold now clinging to her. Tired, but wholeheartedly content in a very relaxed and after glow-y sort of fashion.

"Am I the only one here?"

"No. Betty and Nicky are upstairs. Flash is in the den. And I think MJ is around here somewhere."

"Nicky?"

"Betty's friend," she answers. "So many plus ones. Gotta set a limit on that next time."

"Designated party house, then?"

"You've been here how many times?" She asks. "Thought you'd know that by now."

Harley smirks, his laugh light as he holds out his cigarette to her as a small peace offering. Though he hasn't done a thing to her. Not a single damn thing. And yet-

"Suppose I do."

She nods again, "I don't really care for these-," though accepts the offer easily, and gives into a small drag.

"Me neither," he says - watching as she skims her head to the stars. Relishing as her lungs fill and expand against the intake of smoke.

And to her credit, she only coughs a single time before she's handing it back to him.

"Its been a long night."

"Yeah," Harley says, "I'm actually surprised to be standing still."

"Better that than crawling."

"One time," he laughs.

"That's all it takes," she says, "believe me, it'll outlive you. I still get jokes about the cast party - you were there, right?"

"Your Britney-Britney dance?"

"Must we call it that?"

The snort is natural, though it physically hurts due to the cold night air. So Harley withholds the weight of another, and takes to his cigarette again.

"Suppose there are worse things," she continues. "Also - I'm cold, so I'm gonna head back in-"

"I'll let you know when I head out."

"Yes, you will," she says teasingly affectionate. Though he knows she'll hold it to him should he deny her this.

And as Gwen before, she offers a brief wave and turns in.

...

The night stills in completion - the noise gone, except for the handful of nocturnal sounds that hover and hide in the dark recesses of the yard. Harley supposed that he should have had headed out by now, though the light from upstairs continues to flourish undisturbed - and his cigarette has only been snuffed out for about half a minute or so.

He knew his reasons of wanting to stay here. They, in fact, existed in close league as to why the others had already left. Only, unlike them, he hadn't wished to go home. Not with the moving van there. And especially not with the shrill yells of who had rightfully held the rights to keep this or that.

"Hello?"

Harley had stilled into place, his eyes filtering back to the sliding door from the chair he had now resided in.

"Yeah," Michelle says, taking heed beneath the patio light, "yes, sir. I already asked. Of course. Yeah. Alright. Goodnight-"

Harley catches the click before Michelle has even finished speaking - though more poignantly than that, the harsh sounds of an upset voice that had been laced between her clipped responses.

"-dad," she finishes calmly, on beat and in rhythm - into her cellphone. "Yeah. Alright - fuck you, too. Fuck me, I guess..."

Harley was acutely aware that he shouldn't have had been listening, though he'd reason to say that it hadn't been up to him - not with how the other had practically crumbled outwardly, looking less like Michelle Jones - and, well - more like Harley Keener himself, as of late.

"Fuck," she says.

"Eloquently put."

If Harley had meant to surprise her, than he had certainly achieved such. Though he had been surprised by his own voice too. And even more surprised by the look that Michelle had gifted him upon his remark.

"Keener?"

"In the flesh," he smiles. "Though its strictly physical - mentally, who knows."

The girl had seemed at a loss for a second, so Harley had simply sat and awaited a response, trying not to detail too much of the others face into memory.

Though doing so had proved awfully harder than one might have had suspected.

"How - have you been here all night?" She asks.

"Not all night," he says. "For a while though, yes."

Again, she doesn't say a thing. Though by now she has properly worked herself over enough to wipe at her eyes, dragging a harsh sleeve across her brow and nose that elicits a small painful sort of scoff.

"I hadn't realized any one was back here."

"Well, I'm no one to you - so-..."

"Shut up."

He does. Which, yes - 'cause even close to tears, Michelle Jones isn't the kind of girl to mess with. Neither is she the kind to cry... - or so he had thought. And though he had assumed she would walk off, perhaps straying into the shadows herself - she had only continued to surprise him.

"So why are you here?" She asks, her body already mid swoop. The chair besides him groaning from the sudden and imminent struggle of taking her immediate weight.

"Me?" He asks.

"Who else?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Thought I was told to shut up-"

"Shut up," she says again, "you know - I didn't. God, even drunk you're annoying."

"So I've been told."

"That's not a good thing."

He shrugs again, looking not at her but rather at the moon instead.

"So you're drunk, I gather?"

"You aren't?" She asks.

"Not sure. I was - earlier - but now, I'm just kinda here."

"Me too, I guess. But I'd rather not risk driving tonight."

"Is that why you're staying?"

"Yeah," she nods, "Liz said I could have the guest room."

"Its a nice room," he says. His eyes still distracted before he's meeting her face again. "I may have crashed here once or twice."

"Is that why you're here?"

"No. Was gonna head out, but... I don't know - maybe I'll just walk to the park."

"No," she says with a toss of her head, "don't be an idiot. All the weirdos come out at night."

"They're my people."

"They'll stab you," she laughs.

And her laugh is absolute, and stunning. Not dainty in the least, but honest and deep. Not like Gwen's. Gwen's is like a petite frilly bell - with Michelle's standing more as an obnoxious sounding trumpet.

"So why the long face, bud?" She asks him, all signs of previous distress gone from her face and replaced by feeble and mundane existence. "Didn't get any?"

"I haven't got any since Homecoming," he says, looking to her like he isn't sure whether or not to be offended. "You were there-"

"Was I?"

At that, clear indication is made. The offensive defense taking stride in the way Harley shifts to properly sit upright.

"Are you gonna say ya didn't have a nice time?"

"Dude - I was on my phone the whole time you were going down on me. But you were really shitfaced so no apology necessary."

"Shit, really?" His voice swells, "was it really that bad?"

"Subpar. You could certainly ask Toomes for some pointers."

"Ah, figures. The two of you."

"Same night," she grins, malicious and snark-like, "Thompson took ya home, remember? Maybe ya should have experimented too."

"Please," he says, "I could do better than Thompson...what?"

"Nothing," she smiles, her mouth much lower but piqued with more interest than the last. "Just figured you would be quick to holler 'no homo'."

"You know me," he says, "down for a challenge."

She nods, and peers at the light that still shines from the second story window. A beacon of sorts. The only sign that life is still ongoing within the walls that they've excluded themselves from.

"Did you talk to Petey today?"

The question isn't the most intrusive by far, but it is the most surprising to be asked of him today. The reasoning behind it being unknown, and nowhere near the peripheral of probability.

"Who's asking?"

"He was looking for you," she says with a shrug, "earlier today. I can't imagine why."

"Beats the shit outta me."

"Guess it didn't matter."

With that, the girl raises - her intent felt, and reminding Harley that he should be making a deliberate choice here and now.

"So ya wanna cuddle?" She asks with a flirty heated look. One that isn't at all remotely serious, but neither a complete jest either. So cuddling it might actually be - with the road to an encore of Homecoming completely out of the question.

"Or are you set on bumming with the bums?"

He doesn't say a thing at first. His attention turning to his board as before.

But home isn't an option here. And neither is the park in all truths. So...

"Come on," she says, "if you're still butt-hurt about what I said then get over yourself. You're still the better kisser. And the sex - _while sober_ \- ain't terrible either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two done!  
> I've been mulling this over - with my phone files already mapped with future chapters. (Trying to be ahead here) - and I decided to edit and post, before I could dawdle any longer.  
> For whatever reason, I hadn't been keened on editing - 'cause writing further is too much fun for me. And this chapter had already been reread so many times before I had officially typed it all here.  
> Hopefully that means that the errors are few and far between then.
> 
> Comments and feedback is much appreciated. Be that of any kind.


	3. The Truth Is Just...

Monday morning is a blessing in disguise.

After the night at Toomes, Harley had held himself prisoner at home - for both the entirety of Saturday and Sunday. His room serving as his cell and sanctuary, with the kitchen being ransacked around the clock between the comings and goings of arguments and continuous bickerings. One of which had ended with the shattering of a vase, or another, against the wall.

Neither his mother, nor his father, had attempted to persuade him into helping them. Not that he would have had done so if asked. So perhaps they had been wise enough not to bother. Or perhaps - the likelier of cases - they hadn't even realized that he had been there to physically persuade altogether.

By third bell, Harley is back in the schools auditorium. With the usual stragglers there unlike on Friday, where he had snuck in after final bell.

The stragglers, of course, being a handful of loose members of the schools drama club. About two or four from where he could see-

"Harley," Betty Brant greets, not an official member per se, but an editor of the school newspaper in which her reviews are heavily critiqued and featured in. "Are you here to audition for the winter musical?"

"God no, is that today?"

The girl nods maniacally, her pristine manicured hands fishing for a flier that she then enthusiastically shoves into his face. "Every free period and lunch this week."

"And this is the turn out?" He asks, seeing no new associate, nor any one of actual merit hanging about the littered seats.

"Well the first day is the slowest," she sighs, "I'm only here for moral support."

"What? You saying you're not Broadway bound, Brant?"

"I specialize in editorials."

"Right, forgive me. My mistake." He says with clasped hands, a smug sort of affliction crossing over his features as he does. "But I'm actually looking for Peter-"

"Parker?"

"Is there any other?"

"Actually yes," she says with a turn of her nose, "Peter Hollen, Peter Keller, Pete Davis, Peter Quill-"

"I meant in theater, Betty-"

"Scott Peter Riley-"

"Now that's a stretch, and you know it-"

"Yes, well Peter Parker isn't here," she says in a huff. To which, yes - perhaps he was a tad deserving of such attitude. He could, in truth, had attempted to be kinder to her in every regard.

"Betty-"

"Harold."

"Sorry," he says, "really, sorry. I just need to talk to Peter is all."

"Yes, well - apology not accepted. But he isn't actually here. I'd look in the library-"

"He hangs out in the library?"

"Most of the time," she nods, her face only a shade of sweetness before delving back into that minxed nose-to-the-air sort of look from before, "do you know where that is? Or should I draw you a map?"

"Haha," he remarks, "you should write the funnies, Brant. That's where your true calling lays."

...

It doesn't take long to spot Peter Parker. Not with the comically large stack of books surrounding his person, or the abhorrent thick rimmed glasses that adorn his face whenever he's studying or doing anything even remotely academic. Which, why in God's name would anyone waste a twenty minute free period to do anything coordinated with schooling?

"Peter-"

The whisper is improper. Too gruff sounding for even his own humble opinion. But Peter Parker isn't annoyed in the slightest - his face a mix of bewilderment and surprise than anything else.

"Yeah-? Oh, Harley. Hi."

"Hey," he says. Rather lamely - again, in an opinionated space of his own. Though in all fairness, he isn't entirely sure of himself here. Not in the library - where he's only ever set foot in once or twice. And even then it had been strictly mandated by Mr. Stark for an unassigned, but highly encouraged extra credit fail or pass, type of reading.

"Uh - can I sit?"

Peter nods, his hands making haste in removing several books to give Harley proper space to settle between.

"I am waiting for someone," he, however, adds thoroughly - sounding every bit as unsure about it. So Harley takes it as it is - which is a complete and utter lie.

"I'll be quick," he says. But he falters, and stalls at the face Peter is still reflecting to him.

Up close, the glasses are even more horrendous than previously thought. The lens adequate in protruding his eyes to the effect of a frog-like creature. Well that, and the surely insecure habit of him pursing his mouth together to the point of extruding his lower lip further out than the remainder of his face.

"So...whatcha reading?"

  
Peter, gratefully Harley might add, calls to inept-ive bullshit at once. His mask losing the look of wonder, and regarding him as any other perceived and casual looking day. Disingenuous and all.

Peter had claimed not to hate him, right?

"What am I reading?" He repeats, the eye roll nonexistent but placed as subtext beneath his words. "Harley. What do ya want?"

"Right to the chase, huh?" He tries - making for a light and flirty tease. But Peter isn't at all perturbed by his charms. If anything, his eyes only harden behind his frames the longer he sits there.

"Hey - I thought we were over this whole hate thing?"

"I don't-"

"Yeah, yeah," he says, "so you say. But if there's no hate then why are you glaring at me like that?"

"I am not glaring-"

"Are too-"

"Am not-"

"Yes, you are-!"

"Shhh," Peter shushes, his hands going to Harley's mouth in a flurry. The motion only succeeding in getting him to strike back - calloused hand against feeble shoulder.

"Don't touch my face-"

"Then keep quiet. We're in a library-"

"Believe me, I know. Who hangs out in the library?"

"Is that what this is about? You judging me for yet another aspect of my life?"

"No," Harley deflates. Then-, "no... Look, I just wanted to talk to you about what happened on Friday."

For all sole purposes, Peter has sense enough to cool his features. His face immediately rounding out into concern and affection. Well not affection exactly - but rather pity. Yes, clearly that's all that the other had held over him. Pity...- on top of self-denied spite.

"As in," he continues, "can you not say anything to anyone about that?"

"What?"

"What we talked about. I know I got a little emotional and what not - with my _truths_ \- and I may have said some things, but I don't need you going round and-"

"You think I'm just gonna go and blab all of that to everyone?" He asks.

~~And yes. Yes he does. But-~~

"Uh-"

"Whoa, okay," Peter says, pitied affection all at once forsakened for a much more heated look than the previous disingenuity. "I see. Fine. I promise not to say a damn thing about it. So you can go now."

"Wait," Harley says, his brows drawing together into a slight, but definite, aggravated line, "are you mad at me-?"

"No. What would possibly give you that impression?"

"You are. Why are you mad?"

"God, you are so dense, Keener," the frog purses, "she's right about that-"

"Who? Gwen? Did she say I was dense-?"

"Peter?"

Harley doesn't have a second to process his next coherent thought before Peter's attention is taken away from him. The boys skewed eyes rounding softly again as that same voice had begun to speak once more.

"Is everything alright?"

Harry Osborn, to Harley's surprise, is standing directly above him - his eyes not alarmingly aggravated, but determined and set directly upon him. And its upsetting, almost. Like he's trying to decide whether or not to properly squish Harley for even daring to exist. Not that Harley is short in comparison. Rather, the starting quarterback is simply more rigid against Harley's more compact and defined form.

"Can I help you?" He finds himself asking, the sheer touch of annoyance still filtered there from being looked at in disdain. Be it by him or from Peter before.

"You're in my seat," Harry says softly, voice contrasted by his stare, "me and Peter here are studying."

Harley, in his defense, turns to abashed rather quickly - his feet quick in making him stand.

"Oh - my bad. I didn't-"

"I told you I was waiting for someone," Peter tries. Though he's looking every bit as uncomfortable as Harley feels. And its oddly specific and ill-defined.

"Is everything alright?" Harry then asks again, trying for Harley's attention - but keeping the question mostly to Peter. For his betterment.

"What? Yeah," Harley says, "of course. I was just leaving."

"Okay."

"Yeah, uh -" he looks to Peter again, "just - sorry, if I upset you. I didn't mean to."

And Peter's face is priceless, and it reads openly - for everyone else to see that yes, he knows that Harley hadn't meant to. But Harley Keener simply has a way of leading one to becoming inconvenienced to the point of being angry at him. And Peter Parker most definitely hates him for it, though he continuously denies it at every turn for some rhyme or reason that he will never understand.

"Its okay," the other boy tries, "and I won't say anything, okay? Really."

Harley nods, and turns to walk the way he had come. His shoes squeaking against the tile flooring, which only escalates the matter into further humiliation. For those parked in the room are now openly staring at him - some reserved and curious, others in judgement and comical-junction. And he hates it. But his ears are still perked at the remainder - or beginnings - of a particular conversation between the two boys now seated at the table.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing-"

"-you two friends-...?"

"-...not - really..."

"Good - Keener is an asshole..."

"-yeah..."


	4. A Rule That You Can Bend

"Hey Miles."

  
"No," the darker skin teen says from his perch on the other side of the room. His usual street attire of hoodies and cargo shorts hidden away beneath the full suited smock that holds loosely over light, though deftly recognized, string of muscles.

"But I didn't even say anything yet-"

"But I know you," Miles says, the sound of an aerosol can breaking pause between his words. And Harley respects him enough to stay quiet for the remainder of that beat. The can being cradled over to the top half of the canvas that's been braced onto the far wall of the classroom. Its edgings held on by some makeshift iron-grid that's older than any of the present-day students at Midtown High.

"And you only come to bother when you need something. It's like a given rule with you."

"I'm wounded," Harley says - his fingers already reaching for the can that Miles is about to dispose of. "Which one next?"

"Navy," the other instructs - still not really looking at him, but appraising his work with an eagles eye level of concentration. But he hands over his stark red can of paint and quickly takes hold of Harley's offering.

"Thanks."

"No problem, friend," he says. "So what's this one for?"

"Pep rally," Miles frowns - the can going off as before, but in short minute spurts. "Personally I think these colors suck-"

"You would-"

"Because they do. But Principal Morita thrives to be at the helm of every little decision. He's got an iron fist-"

"And a face to go with it-"

"He needs to loosen up is all. What's wrong with a little color?"

"Believe me," Harley says, "I weep for your struggles, man. The _man_ has no right to stop ya from painting with the colors of the wind-"

"Watch it, Keener. I can still kick your ass."

"We were ten-"

"And I was shorter than you," he smirks, "but look at me now, squirt."

Harley flares for a moment, but turns to offer his own grin in a seconds breath. With Miles all the while doting his masterpiece as evenly as he can. Though his own lips rest at a half amused sort of perk.

"So what do you want?"

"Why does everyone assume that I want something?" He asks.

"What. Do. You. Want?"

"Peter Parker-" He relents. To which Miles snorts at - the can coming second, and nearly fumbling off course from where the teen had thoroughly mapped out his sketch.

"What-?" Harley asks.

"That's a first," is all the other says before he's returning for a third can, then - "what is it about this one - gotta nice ass? You wanna take the nerd for a spin? Hadn't realized you were ready to bat that way, Keener-

"No, you idiot." Harley stammers, his cheeks flushing to the brink of displaced mortification. And not because of the sexual accusation either. But more the thought of actually being unsettled by said accusation. What was he - a virgin? "I need to make amends-"

"With Peter?"

"Yes," he says, "I've been thinking-"

"Lord have mercy."

"I'm trying something here," Harley berates, "just hear me out, okay? He was real cool with me the other day - and instead of thanking him I turned into an ass about it-"

"And you're surprised how?" Miles asks.

"Exactly," he says, "I'm not. But maybe I can apologize. Hence my whole trying a new thing."

"Than why don't you do just that? You know, apologize?"

"Do you know how much I have to apologize for?" He asks as he hops onto the counter besides Miles' setup. "Have you been around for the last year or so?"

"Okay, fine. Point taken. But what's that got to do with me? And why the sudden change of heart - for Parker of all people?"

"Your friends with him," he answers, "at least, I know you don't treat him like I do. _Did_. So maybe you can give some sort of direction here. Plus - I don't know... maybe this thing goes further than that - starting with Peter just seems easier-"

"Then with Gwen, you mean?"

"Yeah." He nods. "Baby steps. So...?"

"So, alright. Fine," Miles smiles. Sickeningly, much like MJ - though hers are at least spiked with the venom of female sensual pleasures. On Miles they're just strange and foreboding, though every bit as frightful. "I kinda wanna see where this goes."

Harley sighs.

"Got any pointers?"

"Well, if by that you mean like a gift. Then why not take note of the one thing that the two of you have in common?"

"Which is?"

"Dude," he says - the facepalm a given, but physically subdued by the remains of paint still staining his hands. "You took fucking photography together."

"Oh."

"God, you're hopeless, Keener."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, with this story - I've decided to try and pull more characters from the established Midtown High of the MCU, but also the Spider man comics in general.  
> Because I could not properly write Flash Thompson as Harley's best buddy without it feeling so disingenuous. 
> 
> Granted, I'm taking liberties with some characters here - but still! I'm trying my best to stay in the established actor's mannerisms and base ideas of these characters.  
> And it just wouldn't work.
> 
> So Miles Morales had to be used here! And he was perfect, and I kept his street art alive by making him the official mural art student of the school! I think it works.  
> (And he may become one of my favorite characters - along with Michelle Jones).


	5. Whip - and Trick

The camera lens is still in it's original packaging.

The only sign of wear and tear being the minimal scuff marks that meet at the points of its corners. Mostly from months of having had been tossed about Harley's room - from shelf to shelf, before falling into a box of useless crap. Only leaving there once it had been decided to be relocated into yet another - albeit better suited - box of crap. Which has taken permanent residence in the inner back corner of his _'broom'_ closet.

That box being rather particular - with a matching top and all.

Now normally Harley would never re-gift a present given to him. But he isn't one with very much money at the moment - and neither does he actually have any other idea behind this recent line of thinking with Peter. If giving him a camera part that he himself had never used - and would likely never use - makes him a cheap ass. Then perhaps he can live with that.

After all, Peter - for arguments sake- wouldn't ever be the wiser.

Now, he knows, that there does remain a chance that Parker already owns this type of lens for their shared model of camera - this being last years ultra wide 17-40 millimetre. But who could deny having a spare in case the other becomes obsolete?

And to what does it even matter? Point was - is, that this was a chance to mend whatever it is that Peter may, or may not very well, be feeling for him.

It's the thought that counts after all, right? Isn't that how the saying goes?

So Peter will recognize and appreciate his efforts in being friendly.

~~He has to.~~

The box from the corner of his closet, though Harley doesn't wish to see it, mocks him. Its contents there, and briefly let free by the scrambling he does in order to properly retrieve the _gift_.

They're mainly photographs - ticket stubs - or the occasional chain or small trinket. Each telling of a story - and each a reminder of some happier time that dictates and measures his younger - much more naïve - years. Dramatic though it may seem. They all pertain to her.

And Harley gives in - begrudgingly so, but slides onto his bare ass in stripped boxer shorts - his exposed legs meeting against the cool planks of polished wood flooring.

She's smiling - her lips parted as Harley digs his face into her blond locks of hair. The picture taken one night at the Summer County Fair. Fireworks marking the ninth hour of the night.

Many of times he had toyed with the idea of ridding himself of this box - this picture always the instigator seeing as it had always remained at the top of the heap - and yet time and time again he had been undone by such thinking.

...and yet here it was - daring him, again, to try and even have that passing thought. Its exploiting nature a testament to its true understanding of the power that it had held over him.

He quickly returns the picture to its resting spot - his hands bracing the lid over, and gripping tightly against its edgings.

_Do it._

_Toss it._

He blinks, his mind entirely made up. And tosses the thing back into the dark corner. Where it will remain until his weakness out-wins him again.

...

Taking a moment, Harley mentally prepares for the small silent echoes and papery breathes of aging ink.

The telltale signs of being in what he had still considered one of the most bizarre and bewildering type of public spaces that there is.

The library.

He - just as the last time - finds Peter rather quickly. Only this time the ~~nerd~~ \- boy - is at a singular desk against the back windows and not at the center table units. Clearly then, Osborn wouldn't be a factor in this.

"Hey, Peter."

This time about, the teen isn't at all surprised to see him. Which - weird. But he isn't looking to him in anger or irritation either. So, that may very well be a win in and of itself.

"Long time no see," he says, in turn.

Then again, perhaps Peter was just trying to be perceived as such. And had willed his mind to simply tease and shoot passive aggressive comments at him.

"Yeah," Harley then says. Playing it rightfully cool as he comes to stand right besides him. "Right - so..."

"What's with the box?"

Peter, for such a usual complacent person, is rather upfront about things. At least, Harley had always thought him complacent and mouse-like. The guy who'd rather sit away on the sidelines then to be pulled center into the limelight. But, in truth, that had always been a perception and not a measured theory.

"Funny you mention that," Harley laughs - though it sounds foreign and misplaced, the act so painfully disingenuous that he nearly slaps himself for being an idiot. "Its uh-" His eyes go to the large red bow that he had crudely tied to it, the _gift wrap_ being that of a brown paper bag that he had cut apart until he could properly fold it into something recognizable. And its...well, what the hell had he been thinking with the bow? Who was he really trying to fool by acting like his end goal here was to impress?

Peter had displaced his glasses as he had waited, his hands fumbling for a small cloth that he had taken from his coat pocket in order to wipe at the two small planes of glass in his hands.

"What?" He asks, "cat got your tongue?"

"Shut up," Harley quips on impulse, his face hardening as he gives in, and juts the package into Peter's face. The box going as far as to bounce off his chin and land on what is most likely a handwritten essay.

"What the hell was that for-?"

"I'm trying to give you this," Harley says in a whisper of a shout, "so stop making this harder for me."

Peter, though still midst glare, looks off from him and peers at the thing now situated before him. His glasses forgotten as he tentatively reaches out to touch the bow.

"What is it?" He asks.

"Well normally people open it to find out."

There's a bit of hesitation from the other. His face shadowed by immense curiosity that's a brush stroke away from genuine concern. As if he expects a dire outcome - with this being yet another act of humiliation brought on by Harley's own wicked and uncaring hand.

"Its not a trick," he says quite calmly. Compassion loose, but clearly there.

So Peter tears the packaging apart - the box coming undone from the paper and clattering back onto the table top.

Harley, all the while, stands and awaits. His nerves churning his insides - which is visually shown by his own fingers twitching against the exposed belt loops of his jeans.

"Is this-?"

"For your camera," he nods. "I remembered that you and I had the same model-"

"Harley," Peter says, "this must have cost a fortune-"

"I got it on sale - a very good one, I might add. But - well...do you like it?"

Peter stays silent, his own hands not daring to touch the box, but his face inclined and desperately yearning to do so.

"I," he begins again, "I can't accept this-"

"Why not?" Harley asks, "do you already have one?"

Peter nods to the negative. His eyes still un-moving.

"Then what's the problem?"

"Money, Harley," he says - "I can't - you can't...why?"

This time, Harley takes the initiative pause. His hands no longer in twitches, but actively displacing the lens from the table and into Peter's hands.

"Because I wanted to," he says. And aloud, it sounds as every bit as truthful as Harley's own honesty in knowing that he isn't a particularly easy person to deal with.

"I can't-" Peter tries again, this time turning the box over in his hands and skimming the small texts that wrap about the sides in paragraphed sectionals.

"Sure you can."

"But-?"

"No buts," he says. "You can't give a gift back unless you wanna be a dick. Do ya want to be a dick to me - especially now that we're _friends_?"

Peter - again - nods to the negative. With his attention now dawning onto Harley's own face. And it's odd - to say the least. For Peter is smiling, though it's nearly sad. And there are tears gathered in the corners of his lashes, but his lips are still perked up into gratification. And...

"Thank-you," he says.

And Harley's heart does something even more daring and ludicrous than Peter's own face...

"Sure."

But he doesn't dawdle on that in the slightest.


	6. The Past Again...

Gwen Stacy is laughing. The giddy sound taking on massive thrill as Harley stops mid-step. His ears candidly ringing, and heart a fluttering mess.

It hasn't, in actuality, stopped in its rhythmic beatings since leaving Peter - who had been left fumbling in affect to his _kindness_. Though the boy had certainly granted him permission to leave. To which Harley had only taken in opportunity to elevate his heart into common normality.

At least, that had been the idea...

When given to retrospect, Harley Keener wasn't above the likes of feelings then. Despite what some have come to fanon over and about himself. He, though not completely justifiable, was a bumbling mess with too many pent up emotions that were never properly taught to co-exist in the world.

His mother had only ever doted as she could - in her own way. Acting the role of perfection. Perfect marriage. Perfect child. But all of that had laid dormant as a charade for years until she had permitted the last domino to fall upon what was an ill abiding union from the start. And his father - well, he hardly ever commented over to the way that he had felt. Normally, releasing only a string of words once properly inhibited - with several cans crowding and taking space in the undercarriage of their bathroom sink.

So it was unsurprising then, that he was a mess - just as it was entirely unfair that his heart was irrefutably weak minded.

"No, he did not-" Gwen continues in a breathy manner, her arms holding onto her sides as the bells had continued to merrily swing about from within her, "you're lying-"

"No," Liz says, "he took my hand - and-"

The girl sidesteps into what looks to be an awkward attempt at the waltz, her own giggles surpassing the blond as she skirted into a lone bench that sat opposite the main quad.

"No, no-" Gwen insists. "Now I know you're lying-"

She stops Liz from continuing, both girls now connected with humorous tears in their eyes. Their travels ceased - as Liz took refugee on the offered seat.

And it's only at this pause that Gwen catches Harley's looking. The tears threatening to spill before she backtracks a hand to her face, using her other as a means of a greeting.

Liz, in turn, had caught this wave, looking to Harley the same-

"Harley," she greets, reeling onto her feet, "am I not telling her the truth?"

"Uh," he attempts un-humorously, "- I'm not sure - what we're you talking about?"

"At my party," she says, "did Flash not grab my waist and try for this?" She, as before, sidesteps and begins to dance- with Gwen, once again, taking her by the arm and stopping her in her wake.

"Okay - okay, we get it-"

And-

"I don't know," Harley says behind a loose chuckle. "I might have missed it."

Liz, per his remark, sighs and makes a grand look of disappointment. Her face going as far as dictating him - "useless," she clears, interruptingly, then - "it happened. Harold was just too shitfaced to remember-"

"I wasn't that drunk-"

"And don't call him Harold," Gwen adds, "you know that he hates that."

"He knows that I know that," Liz smirks, "everyone does - which is why everyone says it."

"Unfortunately true," Harley says. Though still, he thinks. People could take the higher road and refuse to do it. Simply as a means to respect his dislike for it and not as ammunition to further dispel it.

"So-" Liz begins again, "how's it going? Last I saw, you were on my back porch-"

"Well-" he tries.

"You left," she then says instead. Her tone clipping fast with besmirch-ment. "I told you to tell me when you were heading out-"

"Liz-" Gwen warns.

"You're right, you did," Harley, however, admits. "And I didn't. But it's not what you think-"

"Oh? Well, this should be good then."

"I spent the night."

"You did?" She asks.

"I did, I just left early the next morning. Sorry I didn't say anything. I just forgot."

After a moment, Liz nods - with her eyes fleeting a chanced glance to Gwen who stills between them. But she must find a thought there - written in her beautifully green irises. For-

"Fine," she then relents, "you're forgiven."

Harley offers a smile in turn. His own attentions purposely lingering on her before opting a quick and vague look to Gwen himself.

"Right. I should get going then."

The girls nod, with Gwen - as per usual, offering him her own kind and genuine smile.

And for a moment, he sees past it. Seeing not what it lacks - but more of what it doesn't hold anymore. What's it become...

"Actually-"

"Yes?" Gwen promptly asks.

"This is gonna sound random, but... - would you like to hang out sometime?"

"Oh... - Harley-"

"Not as a date or anything," he then adds, "I mean as friends - and," he turns to Liz, "you should come too."

"Gee. Thanks. I love being an afterthought," the girl teases. But she's already regarding Gwen, and measuring her train of thought. With a small eclipsed conversation battling between them in silent droves.

"Yeah," Gwen then nods - the agreement finally satisfied on both ends, "that would be nice. It's been - ah - quite a minute since we caught up."

~~Nearly a year, is what she means.~~

"Well I got some chats in on Friday," Liz says - "Well that and lung cancer, buuuuuuuuuut I'm always game for some free ice-cream. You are buying, right? Since this little pow-wow was your idea."

"Yeah," he nods with a sigh, "fine. I just kinda wanna do something after school- and not..."

He doesn't say it. But the mind link between the girls seems to spark to life once more. Their private lines sending telepathic morse codes that Harley couldn't ever decipher even if given a temporarily link of empathy.

He simply isn't wired to do so.

"Sure," Gwen then says. "Benjamin's today, right after school."


	7. Send You My...

The final bell comes to a head at 3:15 sharp.

With Harley's classmates seeking quick refuge, and herding out the classroom like a common flock of sheep. In turn - in haste - and taking no heed of true personal space.

Harley isn't the last to leave by any means, though usually he's one of only to purposely forgo the fight and simply sits longer to avoid the onslaught. Others being rare breeds of needing to actually speak to Ms. Hill, who only ever cradles over in stupification at anything and everything remotely akinned to that of her students.

_"Yes - push and shove, that'll show the doorway who's boss-"_

_"Of course reading is good for the mind - but will Twilight help you get your finances in check?"_

_"No. That is not a heart - it's less than 3."_

By the time Harley makes his way out on this particular afternoon - Ms. Hill has nearly finished packing her own things. Her face finally devoid of any fraudulence, and reposed over the tiredness of the day.

If one had ever wanted to bare witness to the truth of their teachers, then one just needed to catch a glimpse of their faces following final bell. Usually, they bore a similar look to that of a student. All full of regret, lack of falsehoods, and the longing of holiday time.

"Hey-"

Harley nearly stumbles, his heart giving reset as he turns into the hallway - accosted by, the one and only, Peter Parker himself.

~~"Shit-"~~

"Sorry," Peter says, "I didn't-"

"Hello, Peter," Ms. Hill greets, herself now exiting and locking the door behind her.

"Hi, Miss Hill - no after school grading today?"

"No," the woman smiles, "I get to finally kick up my feet."

"That's good."

"You'll be in for practice tomorrow, right? Or is there a drama club meeting?"

"Just auditions. But I don't need to be present."

"Alright then. See you tomorrow. And bring your game face."

With that, the woman heads off, a brief farewell that's only truly directed to Peter, and Peter alone. Oddly enough, she hadn't even seemed to register Harley standing there at all.

"You two dating?"

"Shut up," Peter flushes. "She's the head of the decathlon team-"

"She's also really hot."

"...if you say so"

He does - and he briefly watches his math teacher turn down the hall. Her small heels knocking against the limestone tiles with each determined step.

"So," Harley then trails, his own body already in motion in pursuit of his locker. Which, thankfully, sits to the south entrance of this floor. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"Well," Peter says, following into step, "I had wanted to say thank you, again. Properly. I was a little surprised earlier-"

"Surprised? You were floored," Harley laughs, "you're jaw must hurt - but I guess I have that effect on people-"

"Do not for one second think that you have any kind of effect on me, or my jaw-"

"Oh-?"

"God, you ruin even the smallest good deeds-"

"So I did good then?"

"Yes," Peter snipes with a small and snarky smile, "somehow, even in spite of that dark cavern that is your heart, you managed."

Harley beams in spite of this, his own coming to stop against an array of lockers.

"I'm touched."

"Listen," Peter says, "I'm trying to say thank you, but if you're gonna start acting an ass again-"

"No - no," Harley says, "thanks. I mean, thanks for saying thank you? For me thanking you? I don't know-"

"You say _'you're welcome'_ , Harley."

"You're welcome, Harley."

"Hardy-har-har. Anyway-"

Harley's locker opens without error, the turn of the dial memorized and based predominantly in muscle memory by now. It's first to the 10 - around to 24 - and thirdly to-

"I was kinda thinking maybe we could hang out-"

"Hang out?" Harley repeats as he shoves his math book into the small metal cubicle - knocking against an old lunch bag that should have been tossed out sometime last semester. With Peter, staying mostly in peripheral, but looking as though he was physically gonna faint.

"Y-yeah," he says, "to give thanks. We could grab a bite - I'll buy. Anything you want."

"No foolin?" Harley asks. "Whoa, you gonna treat me, Parker? With flowers and the works? I'm blushing-"

"Fuck off-"

"I'm kidding," he says, "yeah. Alright. I'm sure I can squeeze you into my schedule. When and where?"

"How about now?" Peter shrugs. And he's still looking every bit queasy. As if any moment he's going to vomit his entire guts out and onto the hallway floor. And it's cute - in a rather off sort of puppy - not at all sexual - kind of way.

"Sure," Harley then smirks with only a small pinch of pity for the other, "woo me, Parker. Who knows, play your cards right - and maybe you'll even get to take me home tonight."


	8. Everyone - Pulls Away

The sudden - albeit near standard - flirting with Peter Parker isn't at all subtle. And it comes quite easily once they've left Midtown. Though fundamentally, it lays in a rather surprising context - since firstly, actual amusement over said boy had once been a joke within itself. And secondly, after Felicia Hardy, and his consequential earnings of a more damning and remarkable name, Harley had tried his best to misguide his flirtations when not given to those previously in the warrant of his life.

_"You're a slut, Harley Keener-"_

The entire change over such a 'charming' attribute had occurred a week after homecoming of last year, with MJ and Harley not an item per se, but neither not-not an item entirely either. Now sure, he had kissed her that following Monday morning, but he had also, mildly, made eyes with Felicia Hardy. The game coming to a head on the football field before first bell on Tuesday. His hands idly playing beneath her skirt, and hand having had teased along the lines of her firm breasts. And sweet nothings had most definitely been spilt onto her lips in short intricate breaths.

But nothing too overtly serious had happened. And, in Harley's defense - MJ had cornered him into the janitors closet that very same day, and not the other way around. But Betty Brant had been adamant in her findings - and word had gone round rather quickly after that.

By the days end, Harley, like today, had been granted an unexpected visitor as well. Only, unlike Peter, Felicia had not only scorned him with the slur but had slapped him senselessly in front of what was his then World History class.

Ms. Carter had certainly been scandalized - behind that which held an inkling of mirth and joyous acquisition.

"So where are we going?" Harley asks once the school is situated on the horizon, the endless amount of traffic more related to the usual bustle of the city. With the hordes of taxis taking resident every few cars or so. "I thought you said this was my choice, Petey-Pie-?"

"Don't." Peter abruptly says, his feet trained to the path in an endless cycle of continuous momentum.

"What? I didn't even say anything."

"You've called me sweet cheeks, darling, and Petey-Pie since we left the school," he says - the sigh escaping past his lips as a near after thought. "Multiple times, I may add. I'm honestly starting to think that this was a bad idea-"

"Come on, darlin'-"

"No," Peter turns, finally ceasing in steps. And looking to him since last he had mirrored a face of ailment. "Look, I get this is a whole thing for you. This whole town flirt persona, but I'm not Felicia, or Kitty - or Carlie Cooper. I'm not a girl for that matter-"

"Okay-?"

"No," he repeats. And though his voice isn't triggered in high fashions of spite and anger. Harley is sure that the boy is speaking in direct thoughts. His opinion of the matter removed in displeasures, but not enough to be completely accosted just yet. "Not too long ago, you said you wanted to be friends. So why are you acting like the typical Harley Keener now?"

"...what's that supposed to mean?" Harley asks. Though his attitude is more of expectancy than wonder, the matter a clear ruse to continue the conversation forward. Instead of dwindling down into accepted silences over what he, in truth, knew to be fact.

"You know what it means."

The two of them had come to a complete stop by then. The light at the cross walk marked in red, and Harley gripping tight to the skateboard that had been crudely strapped onto his navy blue backpack.

He feels as he did then. Or rather - how he's been feeling thus far in regards to Peter's directness, and blunt observational truths. Just as in the library... As in the auditorium. As with every other minute between them that had been laced in fraught vulnerability. A constant bereavement, fought with what little shields he had left to hide behind since Fall had come to fall.

And how it had fallen - Fall, in that regard. For the small pockets of scattered leaves about his shoes had been scorned in ambers and golds. All belittled and broken.

Nearly, he had almost fooled himself into forgetting to worry over woes of the changing seasons.

"Its just," Peter continues. His glasses not in use, but his hand coming to aid against the bridge of his nose nonetheless. "Is this because I asked you to hang out?"

"What do you mean?" Harley more or less repeats. Attention still fastened to the small piles of dried brush.

"Are you uncomfortable with this? Did I give you the wrong impression here? Cause that's the only logical conclusion that I can come up with."

Despite the directness - and the compete awareness of his atypical fashion, Harley is tremendously confused. 'Cause, again, Harley knew himself. He could, in fact, fess to the over all accusations, and the out laying of faults he had over the opposite sex like a common article of clothing. Typical Harley is in relegation of being an asshole - but a crude, and flirty type of asshole. One, that some girls had easily fallen prey too - while others had wisely avoided it. Seeing it for what it was. For what he was.

Peter, in that regard, is much like Betty then - or MJ - or even Gwen for that matter. Those girls had been immune to that type of behavior too. Two had even called him out in it, disclosing the truth and leaving him to flounder at their feet like a fish hooked from the sea. But that was the prompted issue here, wasn't it? That the three previous examples had been girls. And Peter was...well, he most definitely was not of the female caliber.

...though what that had to do with impressions was beyond him.

"Okay," Harley nods, the light thankfully changing to vibrant green - calling for them to make haste and to begin moving again, "sorry. You're right. You're not a girl - but...why would I be uncomfortable by you?"

"What?"

"You asked if I was uncomfortable. But with what exactly?"

He stalls, with his eyes straying to catch Peter's looking. And the other boy, to his surprise, was still frowning in slights. With his airs contending into a type of self-accepted truth that wasn't entirely legible.

He seemed to be thinking Harley an idiot again - was calling him such by way of his eyes alone.

"What," he respectfully continues, "I honestly don't know what sort of _impression_ you're talking about."

Whatever truth Peter thinks he knows is kept mainly to himself then, for he turns to his left - shielding his face from Harley, but walking with the same type of adamant stride as before.

And Harley, again, breaks to think - the silence edging on into something that isn't entirely unpleasant, but neither complacent enough to be mutually compatible.

What could have Peter meant by impression? What sort of thought could Harley have had ever taken his request as - aside from what it had clearly been?

And why was Harley suddenly feeling as though he had forgotten something much more important than any of this at hand?

"You took too long," Peter then says with a light tease - his tone calling for normalcy, but failing to grasp its basic concepted nature. "That's the answer to your previous question. So I decided that we're going to-"

"Shit-!"

Peter stalls in his wording - his feet, all at once, turning about to face the other.

Whatever scour-look had been before, had now been casted off. His demeanor relaying of surprise and sudden curiosity at Harley's exaggerated display.

"What-?" He asks.

"Gwen," Harley says - as if the name is reason in and of itself. "I was supposed to- shit. I forgot."

His hands scour to his bag - the movement unprecedented and clumsy, with his board falling onto the concrete in seconds time.

"I'm real sorry, Peter. But I gotta go-"

And said boy is standing rigidly - with a tilt to his head, and a face searchingly condemned into an endless parade of thoughts.

He even attempts to speak at one point, but Harley has already taken to the streets, the sound of speech lost within the rush of air that sheathes about his person as he goes.

"Typical," Peter sighs.


	9. Balls of Steel

The door to the small establishment gives an intrusive ring. The sound being cheery and meticulous against the rather slow traffic of the diner.

"Welcome to Benjamins- oh! Are you alright?" Comes the voice of a dove. Cooing and oddly familiar - as the older woman approaches him with an heir of delicate intricacy. Proving warm, and collected - face brimming of parental cares and virtue as Harley struggles to call forth a breath.

"Y-yeah," he releases with a smile, his brow drenched in mild perspiration. "J-just - in a rush- sorry-"

"Here - let me fetch you some water-"

Harley makes to decline - though the woman is pivotal, and dashes behind the counter before he can collect another intake of air.

"Harley-?"

He turns. "Sorry-" quick and wildly elated. His steps all at once keened to the lone blond that's sitting at the small rounded table to his left. "I didn't mean to be late-"

"Its okay," Gwen assures, lips stained with remnants of a familiar looking treat - a strawberry banana monkey shake - that rests in a blue-tinted glass on the table before her. ~~Nearly empty.~~

"Sit down-"

Harley obeys, and tosses his board and bag into an empty seat. "I swear, I didn't- forget. It just slipped my mind-"

"That's the exact same thing."

"No, it's not," he says. And - "I just..."

The woman from before appears again - the water cool and settled in a similar blue-looking glass.

"Here - drink-"

"Thank you, May," Gwen says as Harley swigs the contents back, face flushed and even more brightly elated in contrast to the cooler tone of the glass.

"You shouldn't have worked yourself so hard - its awfully hot today-"

"Yeah," Harley finally says, "it is. Thanks. For the water, I mean."

"Would you like anything else?"

"Fries would be much appreciated," he says.

"Make that two," Gwen adds.

May nods, and disperses once more. Though she's keenly observing as she goes, which is unsettling as Harley finally comes to align her face to a not so distant memory...

_"Watch it, Penis Parker-"_

"I'm sorry," Harley then begins instead - back to Gwen and her highly quizzical brows, "really."

"I know you are," Gwen says, taking a leisurely sip at her shake. "And again. Its okay."

Harley is doubtful, though he mocks a meager notion of acceptance to her convictions. A motion that is entirely undone by the betraying defeat of his arms slacked at his sides.

  
  
"So," Gwen then draws out, lips still pressed to her straw, "what kept your attention this time? Did you go to the skate park - or did the girls volleyball team have practice outside again-?"

"One time," Harley says - the rush of heat from his wayward journey still framing his petulant look. "That was one time-"

"You missed half of the movie," Gwen recalls with a laugh. A lighthearted sound that isn't remotely telling to the truth of that particular memory.

"Did you ever see the first half of that?"

"No," Harley says. "Never got around to it."

She laughs once more. This time a bit lower, though still pleasantly amused by the distant portrait now conjuring between them.

"Funny how we can look back and laugh after the fact, isn't it?" She asks with a knowing look. Then - "I nearly broke up with you after that-"

"I would have deserved it." Harley says rather blatantly. Though his body is trembling - his hands in search on the table for a mild distraction. "I did royally piss you off, after all-"

"Only for a day."

"Try a week-"

"It hadn't been nearly that long-"

"It was," Harley offers with a feeble grin. "One week exactly." ~~To the day.~~

"I remember, 'cause I sent you three texts a day, trying to get you to talk to me again. By 21, you had caved."

"I caved-?"

"No, not what I meant," the words insist, "again. I deserved it."

Gwen's smile is sweet, and without displeasure or the once vulnerable hatred that had taken residence there for some time. An indefinite blossoming to that almost once before - when first they had begun. Be that as lovers, or the friends of their riped beginnings.

"So what was it then? Why were you late?"

The sigh is vacant. The guilt displaced for one, only to pull forth another.

"Peter," he begins in earnest.

"Parker?" She asks, clearly surprised by way of a tilt to her head.

"Yeah," he nods, "he and I - I guess, we're sorta friends now?"

"Hm. You seem quite unsure about that."

"Its," Harley laughs, "its sort of new-"

She nods, evident in her understanding of that. For, right- yes, she had been privy to Harleys former hatred over the other. A great many of arguments had grown from that seed of thought alone. The worry, distrust, and jealousy of a constant rhyme or reason as to why Gwen had wholeheartedly insisted on keeping the other boy around.

  
  
_"He's a friend, Harley-"_

_"He's overly friendly-"_

_"Its who he is. Peter Parker is simply a good person. He's even nice to you-"_

_"I don't believe that shit-"_

_"Because you're the one with the problem-!"_

  
  
The bell to the diner chimes for a second time. This latter being not the means of a dramatic display, but a manner of ordinance. One that the visitor doesn't call attention to. So neither Harley nor Gwen take notice of Peter Parkers entrance. Choosing instead to linger longer at the mere notion of the boy.

"How new would you say is new?"

"Today?"

She laughs, genuine and fairy like. The ending of her shake drawing nearer as she stakes claim of a lone cherry.

"Liz should have waited - she'd be terribly amused by this."

"Where is Liz-?"

"She thought it best to give us space," the girl says delicately - her lips pursing with a drawn released puff of air, "insisted really. I'm surprised it took you this long to ask."

Harley only offers another soft sound of amusement to her words- his hands still fiddling about, but mind slowly edging closer to calmer waters.

He reaches for his drink again.

  
  
"May-?"  
  
"Peter, is that you?"

  
  
Harley stops. Enamored attention steadfast as the voice of the newcomer continues to greet in surprise.

"May," Peter happily repeats. His smile natural and irreplaceable to the woman whos standing just behind the small counter of the diner. "How's it going?"

"Fine," she responds with a light toss of her deep chestnut hair. "What are you doing here? I thought-?"

"So did I," Peter relents - cutting her off, and sounding every bit as sad as the lady now looks.

"Come on, Peter. Why the long face?"

"What is he doing here?" Harley then whispers aloud. The question tiptoeing to assist in whatever it is that Gwen may now very well be feeling in seeing the object of his - or rather their - conversation in the flesh.

"His aunt owns this diner," Gwen says without disturbance, "everyone knows that."

Harley doesn't act to comment, though his features predominantly convey a series of doubt and pondering acquisition.

"Right," she continues, "you wouldn't have cared to know."

She looks forward, seeing past Harley's shoulder and makes direct contact to where Peter is still surely standing. If he'd only turn a fraction then he would be able to spot-

  
  
"Hey Petey!"  
  
The state of alarm that crosses Harley comes in a fluttering mess of expressive feats. With Harley's face first cinching into despair, then to wonder - with embarrassment lapping into the remains of unreserved disgrace.  
  
"Hey," Peter greets easily, turning round - the wave delicate, before it too, just as Harley's own arms, fails to be anything but a weak and daunting limb.

"Oh," Peter then perplexes to him, "- so this is where you got to."

May takes in the trio for a moment, before she's rifling back - eyes ever skimming as she returns to the kitchen behind the red painted door.

"Harley here didn't know that this place belonged to your Aunt," Gwen says matter of fact-ly. Her face too plastered with interest and mirth to be anything but a tactile jab at Harley's expense.

"Really?"

"He also just told me how you guys are friends now."

Peter nods, the flush light as he draws closer to their table. The admittance only sustainable in lack of any deterrence.

"Yeah, so he keeps saying."

"Oh?" She asks, crossing back to the former.

"Yeah," Harley then mumbles, "look - again, I'm sorry. I said sorry, just so we're clear-"

"For what?" Gwen asks.

"We were supposed to hang out today," Peter answers, "but then he bolted-"

"'Cause he forgot we were hanging out," Gwen realizes with a laugh, "now I get it."

"There isn't anything to get," Harley insists.

But Peter is already taking a mindful step back - his eyes pressed in between them like a game of ping pong, "I hadn't realized that the two of you-"

"No," Gwen says abruptly, "just friends, Peter. We uh - needed to properly catch up. But since Harley isn't great at juggling plans, why don't you join us?"

"No, I couldn't-"

"We insist," she says, "right, Harley?"

Harley nods, trying for a light smile himself despite the resurgence of his wandering hands.

"It's only fair," Gwen then adds. And she's a minx, if Harley had ever known one. Nearly - he had forgotten the torment that had often come from her way. Jests and the likes, and all for a perceived line of good that she had felt true enough to expend him for.

Peter, to no surprise, accepts the offer, and drags a single chair to sit adjacent to the two. Looking pleased though slightly unstable as he settles across from where Harley had placed his belongings.

"So-... How did you guys become friends?"

Peter immediately turns to Harley, who's returned to his glass for a sip. Though his eyes are remnant, and are in league with his staring.

"It sorta just happened," Peter then says, "I uh, helped him with some homework..."

She nods, "of course you did."

"And, in thanks, he gave me this-"

The lens, to Harley's surprise, is already fitted onto Peter's camera. Which had been tucked neatly into his bag besides what appeared to be an old portfolio of sorts.

"Do you always have that on you?" He asks.

"Of course," Peter nods.

"Why?"

"He's in yearbook," Gwen answers. "I'd be more surprised if he didn't have that on him."

Harley, as before, frowns in lieu of this newly obtained knowledge, his mind searching in wonder as to whether or not he had ever seen Peter take a single picture of anything outside of that once shared photography class.

"You saw me at Homecoming," Peter then says, as if he had been privy to his thoughts. "Remember? You and MJ-" He stops. His own face bereaved in surprise before he's looking embarrassed and regretful. Though it isn't for Harley's sake, rather - he's especially reserved for Gwen.

"Sorry-"

"Its okay," she says with a groan, "really. Why do people act like we can't ever mention Homecoming anymore?" She turns to Harley. "I swear, people act like I'm some exotic endangered species. Please-" At this, she returns to Peter, "I'm not gonna crack at the seams just because we talk about it."

"Right. Sorry-"

"Stop apologizing," she says, "so do tell? What happened at Homecoming?"

"I tried to take their picture-"

"And...?"

At this, Peter skims to Harley as before. Though he reflects and avoids a direct line of sight, and instead focuses in on his nose and forehead. Which Harley more or less accepts, his own notice coming to settle upon Peter's awkwardly pressed mouth.

  
~~Shit.~~

  
"I told you to go fuck yourself," Harley relents, the small and hazy memory suddenly picturesque and exuberant enough to be properly strung about him. "And I shoved your camera into your face...- Hard."

Peter nods.

"I'm so sorry," he then continues, "Peter." His voice leveling out into a new register, hands finally settling to grab at Peter's wrist. "I was an asshole-"

"Its okay-"

"No, it's not. You were just doing your job, and trying to be nice to me." He pauses. "You were always trying to be nice-..." At this, he turns back to Gwen. Who's only watching him with interest and surprise. "You were right."

"Took you long enough," she smiles.

"Right about what?" Peter asks.

"You," Harley says. "She told me that you only ever insisted on being nice to me, and that I was the one with the problem. But - I just always thought... I assumed-"

"Order up," May announces, skimming past with a small silver tray - housing three sets of fries and three cheeseburgers - and planting them dead center. Forcing Harley to release his hold, and part from Peter whos looking precariously at the newly arrived set of food.

"I imagine all this talking must have created an appetite. On the house, of course-"

"No, May-" Gwen begins.

"No, I insist," the woman says, "it's not very often that I get to bare witness to Peter's friends-"

"Don't word it like that," Peter flushes, "besides - Gwen is always here-"

"I am not always here-" She snaps with a light strike against his shoulder.

"Be that so," May says, "seeing the three of you work things out is simply 'cause for a celebration."

"God. You're embarrassing."

"Do not use in vain-" May warns, though her smile is every bit affectionate as she places a tender hand against Peter's head.

"Sorry," Peter says.

Naturally, she only dotes for a moment longer - though a fleeting look is bespoken to Harley as she vacates from her nephew's space.

And he understands, even as she continues to smile. That her behavior is marked in acquisitioned forewarning over Harley himself.

For though a sweet and loving woman, she hasn't forgotten. And heat stroke or not - friend or enemy - May wouldn't think twice should Harley act the way he had done the very first time that they had crossed paths.

"I'll be over here," she says in farewell, "if you need anything else."

  
  
He hadn't known then who she had been - clearly. But he had cornered Peter onto the curbside once - nearly a year ago. With an icy stare and a sharp tongue that had been meant to hurt him.

  
  
_"Watch it, Penis Parker-"_

  
  
Though Peter hadn't disturbed him in the slightest. He hadn't even registered his presence until Harley had felt the need to shove into him.

_"What? You gonna say something, fag-?"_

_"What did you call him-!?"_

May had come out of the diner with a broom in hand then-

_"Mind your damn business, lady-"_

_"Listen you little punk,-"_

_"May," Peter had detracted, "It's fine-"_

_"No," she had flared, "it's not. Apologize now, or I'll show you how much of a lady I can be when I shove this broom down your throat-"_

Harley had taken off in a haste after that - with Peter interrupting her again to insist on calming her back down.

He hadn't particularly cared nor bothered to keep tabs on that particular memory. Neither had he taken her for anything important other than May, the owner of Benjamins. A decent enough civilian who had only ever sought to handle assholes like Harley Keener with threats of _civilized_ justice.

She was more than that though - she was Peter Parker's only living guardian. And she'd certainly teach him a lesson should he ever even think to dare and step out of line again. But more so than even that - she was willing to give him a chance to even consider that possibility.

"Your aunts fucking cool," he says after the silence of eating has passed over them. With Gwen tearing open a second salt packet, and Peter's face stuffed with a double-decked cheeseburger.

"What?" The other then asks, looking like a feral animal as he spoke with loose bits of trailing food.

"That's attractive-" Gwen snipes.

"Your aunt," Harley repeats with a crooked smile, "She's kinda awesome."

~~And hot.~~

Though he prefers not to share that for the obvious reasons.


	10. For A Minimum Wage

Peter's in the restroom by the time May has collected their dishes. Her face still brightly mindful, but reserved and adamant in Harley's direct line of sight.

  
  
"Thanks," he says to her, earning a courteous nod and a 'you're very welcome,' as she disperses to address a young couple who is sitting at an adjacent table.  
  
They're newly established from the looks of it - with acute pleasantries and teeth-centric smiles. The fine remnants of sweet whispers breathed and intimately shared in continuous passing.

  
  
"So this camera-" Gwen starts, her hands already minding the contraption. Holding the lens like a foreign entity - much as a non musician would hold a clarinet, or any other type of musical instrument. "Interesting...-"  
  
"I have the same one." To which, yes - she offers a roll of her eyes to, the clicking of her tongue substantial as she palms the closed cap of the lens.  
  
"Do you think I'm forgetful, Harley?" She then asks.  
  
And no, not in the slightest. If anything, Gwen is an encyclopedia. Ever changing, and cataloging each and every new entry of the day with its inhabitants.  
  
"No-"  
  
"And am I the type of person to give meaningless gifts?"  
  
Also again, no.

  
  
_Oh..._

  
  
"Yeah," she says to his nothing of a response. Face not withdrawn with detest, or anger, in the slightest. "I figured you hadn't used it. Though I'm surprised you kept it."  
  
"Why do you assume-?"  
  
Her eyes are just as pristine. Perfect in a roundabout way that suits her face, and entire being. Meaning they exude the same type of beauty and prowess as the rest of her. And to earn that power, in eyes or voice alone, meant being placed under a dangerous and effective microscope. Every inch and cranny of your soul for the taking.

  
  
"You'd never buy such an extravagant gift."  
  
It's harsh, and filled with personal knowledge, the knowing all too clear and withstanding as she placed the camera onto the tabletop.

  
  
"Are you going to tell him?" Is all he comes to ask, voice soft and delicate sounding even as his palms resound to their fate of exuberate dampness.  
  
"And break his heart?" She asks, "no." Then, "Peters a good guy-"  
  
And, more as a means to appease his former self, Harley says - "must I subject to this again?"  
  
"He's sweet," Gwen continues unbothered by the shallow attempt at fake resentment, "and caring. His heart is too big for its own good. Which means that he always wants to see the best in people." She stalls, "I know you also have a heart, Harley. But...-"  
  
 _But_ , he hears. Already prepared for yet another harsh echo of what would surely be a common strike against him.

  
  
"I also know how easily careless you are with others."

  
  
Its the truth, he knows. He's always known - especially now with the denouncement of his previous life. Though still, she's drawing the line quite mildly. For him - because of him... In spite of him.

  
  
"I'm not planning to hurt him," he says after a moment, "...why-?"  
  
"You never are," she interrupts.  
  
And the essence is there again. The stroke fine and highly detailed on an otherwise blank canvas.

The nature that yes, Harley Keener didn't ever mean to do or dictate a thing as this or that. He never meant for actions or words to have their consequences.

  
  
"I am sorry," Harley says for the hundredth time that day. The importance and strength not faltering in the slightest even in lieu of the near commonality of it thus far. "I hadn't meant-" he stops, his head drawn forward into a reserved and intimate hunch. Private even.

"But...I did," he continues adamantly, "I did hurt you. With intent or not, I chose to pull away."

Consequences, after all, are what rain are to the low and dark sheets of cotton in the sky. Likely, and inevitable.

  
  
"I understand why," Gwen nods - her too choosing to take a manner of silence before thinking it wise to continue unfettered, "I always have. And I forgave you a long time ago."  
  
"Then what's taken so long to do this?" He asks without thinking, the motion of hands between them comically dramatic.  
  
"Well," she answers, warily looking off to the restroom doors, "this is the first, isn't it? You coming to me? Even though I've always smiled at you - waved. Took kindly to better words in spite of it all."

  
  
"Yeah."

  
  
"Then?" She asks.  
  
He shrugs. "I wasn't ready...?"  
  
"Exactly," she says, "but this - this here with Peter is an entirely different matter altogether. And I'm warning you, tread lightly."  
  
She smiles with another glance to the doors - regressing back into the happy Gwen as she whispers, "else I may not forgive you this time around."  
  
And Harley knows - just as with May, that she means every word of it. Just as Peter is clearly in the know to the tense atmosphere that had fallen between the two in his absence.

  
  
"Everything alright?" He asks.  
  
"Yeah," Harley answers.

...

  
  
The sky had vaguely colored over to a open fire then, the diner - in it's wake - taking to a small rush of patrons as the three had exited its doors. With Peter waving and bidding farewell to his aunt, who had begun to whisk her two dinner employees with a steadfast hand.

  
  
"Does she work late?" Harley asks.  
  
"Till about ten usually," he says. "most times I stay to help, but she insisted that I take some time off - I'll come back for her later though-"  
  
"You live around here then?"  
  
"In those apartments," Gwen answers, pointing off as she takes to her cell phone.  
  
Harley follows her brief direction, eyes straying to an old apartment building that skirts up across the way, overlooking a small laundry mat on the ground level. It isn't anything remotely grand, nor special - a common building that shows years of weathering abuse under an ugly coat of winter green paint.  
  
"That's nice of you to walk her," he then says to Peter's gauging reaction. His feeble smile clearly a defense over the possible judgement of such a lifestyle.

~~Or lack of.~~

  
  
"I need to get going," Gwen then says, already on route and crowding by the street light in the corner.  
  
"Do you want me to walk you?" Harley asks.  
  
"No," she says, "you live in the opposite direction, 'sides, my father is actually just down the road. Just off of patrol." She relieves a smile to them both, her right hand gripping onto Peter's shoulder lovingly, "this was fun. Let's do it again sometime."  
  
She skips about as Peter and Harley bid their own farewells, both watching as the light turns. Her body merging into a small crowd across the way.

  
  
"So...you heading home too?" Peter asks.  
  
Harley, finally drawing back, looks to the other boy rather conflicted.  
  
Normally, such a long span of time with anybody would be cause to seek an end to the day - especially with one who only ever seemed to stem affliction and thought over feelings of guilt and sorrow. But a trip home would only delay the inevitable for a half hour longer. Then, he'd be relented to either exile himself into his bedroom - or the consequence of yet another scene with his parents.

Avoiding them just seemed simpler as of late.  
  
If he didn't exist at home, then they wouldn't exist in mind.

  
  
"Why?" Harley asks with a smirk. "Are you sick of my company already, Darlin'?"  
  
"Are you serious?" Peter asks, face skittishly falling into bereavement over the singular - _affectionate_ \- word, "you were practically normal up until now-"  
  
"I'm kidding," he laughs, "it was a joke. Honest."  
  
Peter rolls his eyes at him, and simply turns to head into the other direction. His plight obvious even as Harley jogs to catch up.

  
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
"You wanna hang out or not?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"Then we're heading to my place."

  
  
Its unnecessary, and Harley realizes he had promised not to revert back to such brashness and jests. But its fundamentally hard, and his inhibitions seem to be at their lowest points once no other living person is present to possibly dismay him from teasing Peter Parker. Perhaps it a ghost of his once hatred then, or perhaps he wasn't entirely as comfortable with said boy then he had originally thought. Seeking yet another makeshift shield to hide behind.

  
  
"I guess I did say you might be able to take me home tonight, huh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have now just realized that this story is slightly being written in real time. Kind of.  
> That is, seasonally, Summer has ended and Fall is beginning - and Winter will be here in a blink of an eye, because that's just how this year has been acting.  
> But by way of first realization, I realized - secondly - that I hadn't even considered a possible Halloween feature in this tale.  
> And I myself am a lover of this particular season. So how had it never crossed my mind that I have endless possibilities here to write a Halloween that I may sadly be missing this year due to the state of the world?
> 
> Which is fair, and legitimate, all things considered - but still.
> 
> The festivities shan't be the same this year. So I simply must include Halloween somewhere - even if I have to rework a few things since I am several chapters ahead of this in notes and execution.
> 
> I had planned for another party to be a backdrop of a future update, after all. So would it really be that hard to rewrite it in the spirit of the holiday?
> 
> Yes, slightly - for it gives reason to a point of me not wanting the party to have reason, but simply be - (which is for reasons that I have personal affiliations for, if that makes any sense). It's a choice, and I stand by it. And the story calls to it by way of the text. 
> 
> 'But is it impossible to sway from?' I ask myself.  
> 'No.'  
> 'And is this just a way to write out my thoughts so I that can properly mull them over?'  
> 'Yes.'


	11. Got Real Estate

The Parker residence isn't exactly a shit hole - nor is it ideal and bohemian enough to be deliberately charming.  
  
Compared to the building itself - which Harley had read as _'_ _The_ _Amazing Fantasy' -_ however, it's primarily doable. With Harley releasing a sigh of relief at having herded into apartment #15. Successfully leaving the dark and foreboding hallway that proved every bit as unnerving as a _potentially_ deserted back alley street-way.

  
  
"Yeah - they don't ever fix the lights out there," Peter says, shrugging off his sweater.  
  
Harley hums and takes to his surroundings - finding the soft cremes palatable and mostly clean-looking than one would have had rightfully expected. It's rather small, and the sitting room is attached to the kitchen - with only a couch to divide the two.

A lone strip of a hallway looks to lead out to what Harley suspects are two bedrooms and a single bathroom. In comparison, the entire apartment could have had sat in Harley's kitchen and dining room alone. And that was only partially an exaggeration.

  
  
"I know it isn't much-"  
  
"Its fine," Harley assures, his eyes straying to leave Peter's flushed and shameful face to it's own privacy. "I'm not snooty or anything-"  
  
"We use to have a bigger place," the other continues, "but after Ben..."

  
  
 _Benjamin Franklin Parker_ , Harley easily recalls. 'Cause even an asshole like him had known that Peter had lost his uncle not too far back. His parents too - or so, he had assumed once before. Why else would Peter be living with his aunt and uncle?  
  
 ~~Aunt - he corrected.~~

  
  
"He didn't leave much," Peter finishes.

Ben had been the unfortunate victim of a robbery gone wrong - his civil duty too earnest for it's own good. Leading him to try and apprehend the thief himself. Though his efforts, unfortunately, had only garnered a gunshot to the chest.

Gwen's father, George Stacy, had been the first one on the scene...

  
  
"Hey," Harley smiles, finally looking to Peter directly, "its fine. You don't have to defend your life to me."  
  
It isn't much of a reassurance, but Peter nods anyway - and gifts a look similar to when they had been in the library. A look that spoke of gratitude while simultaneously being weakening to Harley's own retrieving, and quivering, heart.

God, the library... - had that only just been earlier that day?

  
  
"It's been a long day, huh?" Peter muses aloud.  
  
To which Harley laughs to. The sound caught in an unexpected web. "Why do you seem to be able to guess my thoughts?"  
  
Peter shrugs. "I hadn't realized-"  
  
"Yeah," Harley says, "you and Gwen both."  
  
He falls to the couch immodestly then - making space, and claiming it as if it was the most natural thing to do. If his mother had been there...

  
  
"You wanna watch a movie?"  
  
"Sure," Harley says, kicking his feet up, "what do ya got?"  
  
"A lot of rom-cons, some old westerns - and my things- uh, Star Wars, Harry Potter, Titanic, Pirates of the Caribbean, the Sandlot-"  
  
"The Sandlot? No foolin' - ? I love that movie."  
  
Peter beams a smile and makes to feed the disc into the player that sits overhead. The television coming to life as he takes claim next to Harley.

  
  
"I sometimes cry at this," he then offers sheepishly. His shoulders laxed, and without the daily heaviness of school life to beat him back into submission.  
  
"Because of the ending?" Harley asks.  
  
"Yeah - is that weird?"  
  
"Nah," he says, "its bittersweet. It's sad how things change when you get older. How people change and drift apart-..."  
  
"Unless you're lucky enough to find your own Benny the Jett."  
  
"True," Harley smiles, "but he'd be nothing without his Smalls."

  
  
The movie passes with laughs and giggles rooted between the scenes, the two reciting the most quotable lines word for word, without thought nor proper etiquette.  
  
Harley is being over bright and importunate, as if he's at the Morales' home, and not some random dodgy apartment building a few blocks removed from the campus of Midtown High. And Peter's simply being Peter, though without the usual reserves to remind him of who he was, and what others seemed to dictate he lacked. What Harley had essentially helped etch into him for years.  
  
They're essentially conjoined at the hip, arms and legs sprawled as if the two of them had always been friends. Practically brothers in arms and not once enemies who had only recently subsided their hatred for one another.  
  
By the time the camera is panning to the group photograph of the film - the closing shot just before the credits begin - Peter is tearing at the eyes, with a smile tight-lipped - though radiant and specific enough to warrant attentive affection.  
  
"Bittersweet," he nods at Harley's looking. Who, by way of extension, is only a touch more in control of his emotions. The sight of Peter nearly bringing him to feel rawer in light of the film than ever before.

  
  
"He followed him to the Dodgers, God dammit." He turns with a weak chuckle. "Shit - sorry-"  
  
"Just don't say that in front of May," Peter says with his own superfluous laugh.  
  
"Yeah, no - she already hates me."  
  
"May doesn't hate you," he says - then, "she doesn't hate anybody."  
  
"Dude," Harley says, "she wanted to choke me out with a broom that one time-"  
  
"Penis Parker?" Peter asks in recollection.  
  
"Yeah," he nods. "Sorry about that- Again."  
  
"Its okay-"  
  
"No, its not," Harley says - the groan escaping in between. "Jeez. It's not okay. Its not. It won't ever be. I was an outright asshole to you for years, and you shouldn't be so forgiving."  
  
"I shouldn't?" Peter asks.  
  
"Well, now - yeah," he says, "but... I mean, no? No. You shouldn't. Not so easily. Or...?"  
  
"Or?"  
  
"Did you only recently forgive me?" He asks, curving his legs to cross beneath his thighs - his upper body leering to settle closer to Peter. "Did you ever hate me before? I know you said that you never did. But there had to be a moment. Even if just a thought of hatred-"  
  
"No. Not at all."  
  
"God," Harley groans again, his head tossed over to his left shoulder as he collapsed from his seat, "you are so infuriating."  
  
"Because I forgave you?"  
  
"Because you never hated me." He sighs, eyes strained to the ceiling overhead. "It's just... At least, let me work for this harder."  
  
"You want me not to like you?"  
  
"No, I do. That's not- Jesus."  
  
Peter ceases, though he's looking rather amused by it all. His arms gingerly placed into his lap as he sits up to further ponder over the other.

  
  
"You want me to forgive you - but not easily so," he begins again, the smile spruced and bait-ful, "so I should give you a chance at that - by having you work hard for it? Even though the outcome is exactly what we essentially have now."  
  
"Yeah," Harley says. The uncertainty there as he remained in his fallen position. Then- "okay," he relents, raising again to properly mirror the other, "so it sounds stupid when you say it."  
  
"It isn't profound in your tongue either," Peter insists. "But should it please you, then... You're the biggest a-hole I've ever known and I hope a bird poops on your head."

He smiles, much like a child who thinks himself willfully clever. And it's even more infuriating than the non-aggression from before. Even as Harley simply stares without expressional feat.

"And I expect a cupcake tomorrow for my troubles." He finishes.

"...is that you trying to be mean?"


	12. Buying It All Up

The day draws to a permanent close rather quickly. With Harley now home, and in desperate need of further distractions. Even in spite of social exhaustion taking its toll, and demanding proper payment of isolated detachment.

Not that such currency had remained improbable - or unsound to Harley. Rather, the distraction was needed against the toll due to the rooted frenzy placed within him by his mother. Who had successfully grated into him not even a second after having walked into the front door.

About garden gnomes, no less.  
  
How he would have had known that her gnomes had been caked in mud due to him having knocked them over, he couldn't say.  
  
How she had been certain that it had even been him-

  
  
"You're the only one who comes through the side door, Harley-" She had said with hands firmly established on her hips. Her genetically gifted dirty blond hair wild, and loose, and tossed over to one side.

"That's not true-"

"I would have noticed if it had been me."

"And the gardener?" He had asked. "Or dad? Since when do you even give a shit about those creepy ass gnomes?"

  
  
She hadn't. Doesn't. Not in the slightest - but his father hadn't been present for her views over the prejudiced injustice of the creatures' life dealt in soil and object-ism. And the truth of the matter remained that she was only taking the damn things with her to further spite the man.

His father had gifted the gnomes to her, after all - thinking them necessary for the garden in the small plot of soil along the fence - which ran as a perimeter around their yard. The surface of such being mostly fashioned by fake grass and paved brick which led to the pool and its sequential house.

But his mother had always hated them - had even whispered her horrid thoughts aloud when she had thought none of them wise enough to be listening.

Really though, how could Harley not with her garden sitting just outside of his bedroom window?

"You're gonna throw them out anyway," had been his last words over the matter, "as you do everything else."

A statement that she hadn't bothered to retract against. Her phone going off consecutively - likely her lawyer, or another - the prospects being in the same league as the first. Possibly even the man that Harley had suspected, for a long while now, to be in her life.

"You're always destroying my things," she had said between the ringings, "I can never have anything to myself-!"

He had come to fall onto his bed after that, mind trailing back to Peter and May - who he had seen again at the end of her shift. His staying at the Parker residence ending at about 9:45 - with just enough courtesy left to escort Peter back to the diner before trekking his own way home.

May had clearly been surprised to see him, though she had been as pleasant as before.

~~As much as she could.~~

"You'll be alright heading home at this hour?"

"I've gone further," he had said with a motion to his board, which still sat nestled in the straps against his bag, "at more...odd hours."

Peter had laughed behind his hand then, the exchange light as May had kept to him. Eye skeptical, and clearly taking his words for the absolute truth of what he had accidently let slip.

"At least text Peter once you're home," she had insisted. Which only fed to the recognition that neither boy had even bothered to exchange such contacted information.

And after having done so, Harley had dispersed into the night. Leaving the pair with fluttered words and a dominant wave that still felt too fleeting.

Once home, the ugly gnomes had then taken him to trial - the judge, juror, and executioner not even mindful of his late absence. On a school night, no less. Not that it had mattered. Nor had it ever.

...

  
  
Harley skims, laying on his queen size bed with little more than a t-shirt and boxer shorts on. His phone drawn over his face in an otherwise dark bedroom - with arms extended to the shadowed abyss above (and consequently, around) him.

  
  
**Harley. I'm home**

**Peter. Took long enough**

**Harley. Talking to my mom sorry**

**Peter. Mad you were out late?**

  
  
Harley laughs, without real humor - but isn't really inhibited by relaying the truth to the other any longer.

**Harley. No I kicked some of her ugly gnomes I guess**

**Peter. ?**

**Harley. She has these garden gnomes outside I kicked a few over and apparently that means I'm now the antichrist**

He falls asleep texting Peter, which had gone on longer than he'd ever care to admit. Considering that he had practically been at his side since school had let out - the prospects of any real continuous conversation taking place had been, and is, absurd.

Though the texts had only continued - with Harley learning a handful of points that were even remotely important enough to consider remembering.

Firstly, Peter Parker - just as he - wasn't at all an early night type of sleeper. In fact, he had admitted that his presence at night had proved the most liberating and calming time of his day.

Second, he preferred to lay on his back when choosing to try and rest - which Harley found blasphemer-ectly horrifying, since he himself couldn't hope to travel into unconsciousness without burying his face into the mattress.

And thirdly, the boy was just as amusing through text as he was in life. Which more or less meant that Harley had found his face hurting quite a good amount more than usual once morning had come to pass...

To which he had taken to in a groggy state of mind - his shower proving quick after the sudden triumph of his alarm bringing him back to life.

His father, by then, likely in the bedroom. His mother at a motel, or in the guest room.

The gnomes from last nights hate crime, to little surprise, were sitting at the kitchen counter - newly washed, and smiling with smug looks of satisfaction from the confines of a box marked Helen's stuff.

He had smacked at it, barely ricocheting the box at all, and had gone to search for a bowl and spoon in the cabinets overhead. Head clearer from steamy waters, but still enchanted by way of haze and a longing to return to his bed.

The bowls, however, were all gone. With remnants of rolled bubble-wrap being the only signs of the culprit. The fridge itself, lacking in milk - eggs - jam - practically anything, and everything, remotely associated with daily breakfast essentials.

The cupboards, he had soon learned, were just as scarce.

  
  
With thirty minutes to spare, Harley had paused at the foot of the door. The thought of school maintaining a means of blissful escapism being twisted and unforgivable. Especially in lieu of the warm and comforting sheets of his bedspread mapped in cardinal tones. So Harley, still being in that state of irritable hunger and tiredness, had decided to knock at the gnome box once more. Albeit harsher. The move being meticulous and abrasive enough to cause the box to fall over.

  
A distinctive crash of crushed porcelain hitting against wooden floorboards was thusly heard then. The lock of the door clicking into place, and echoing out into a chirper laugh. Which had erupted from the confines of Harley's throat like a cork being fired from a wine bottle. 

...

"You look terrible," Miles had firstly greeted, his hands moving to perch his large headphones onto his shoulders. His grin being that of a lusty and toyful spirit - the inkling of sentimental affliction for his friends haggard expression barely even there, though certainly present the same.

  
  
"As opposed to what?" Harley asks.  
  
"Well, normally you look the part of back alley hooker - but at least the dignity was there."  
  
"It was a long night-"  
  
"Clearly. And what, if I may ask, sort of mischief did ya get into this time?"  
  
"Strictly rated G," he says, "I was actually with Parker."  
  
"First date already?"  
  
"Call it what you will."  
  
"So the advice worked then?"  
  
"Yes - and many appreciates are granted, my friend."

They had strolled into the main building of Midtown High then, stopping just on the cusp of the schools crest. A mosaically built upon logo of collected navy and gold marble stones. Built, as they had been told, in 1962 - the only remaining piece of the original schools flooring. Which, unfortunately, was also the most walked upon section - grime and abrasion clear and unattractive to the naked eye.

  
  
"I accept cash and all credit cards, just so we're clear."  
  
"And yet payment hadn't been legally contracted - written or otherwise, so you're shit out of luck."

  
  
Miles snorts, and readily tugs Harley along to the west hall - dragging his feet over the crest as his eyes caught onto the small cart that's primarily parked there every morning just before the first bell.  
  
"I need sugar," he says without purpose, "you want anything?"  
  
Harley eyes the offered treats - the lone lunch lady patient as she offers a meek smile to their intake of choices.  
  
"Parfait, since you've asked." Then, after a thought, "a chocolate muffin wouldn't hurt either."  
  
"Better reach for your wallet then," Miles teases before repeating the order to the woman, and taking two peanut butter and jelly uncrustables. "A chocolate milk too - yeah."  
  
He hands the parfait and muffin over to Harley - along with a single sandwich, smiling still. "You're looking starved. And your stomachs been talking to me since I switched off the tunes."  
  
"Thanks," Harley beams, fishing into the folds of his jeans and relinquishing a few scattered bills, "for everything."  
  
"Put that shit away," Miles snorts, "it's my treat-"  
  
"No-"  
  
"Yes, Keener. No need to suddenly be righteous-"  
  
"Come on, man - please? At the very least - the muffin-"  
  
The two dollars are forced effectively - with Miles only maintaining an odd sort of perplexion as he does so. "I don't see the point, but fine."

The two then make a gratuitous show and bite into their meals, respectively chewing and strolling further into the school entryway.

  
  
"So how about you detail your date to me? And don't skip the dirty parts."  
  
"I was a perfect gentleman-"  
  
"A gentleman?" Michelle repeats, appearing as she catapults herself to drape around Miles' shoulders - her legs tucking neatly into his sides as she clings to him like a sloth embracing a tree.  
  
"I'm not a jungle gym-"  
  
"But my feet are killing me, Miles."  
  
"Tough shit," he says, though he doesn't make to shrug her off - instead keeping in pace and continuing on his way. As if the girl isn't anything but a glorified accessory.

  
  
"Mj," Harley greets once her smile is caught and directed to him over the taller teens shoulder.  
  
"Hiya - so what were you lying about?"  
  
"I wasn't lying," he says.  
  
"I heard it was a date - so obviously you were anything but a gentleman-"  
  
"Not a real date," Miles relates with a snort, "more like a fantasy-"  
  
"With who?"  
  
"No one," Harley says. Though Miles hikes the girl higher onto his hands - her thighs tightly flushed against his open palms, and continues, "Peter Parker-"  
  
"Really?" She smirks. "And here I thought you grew wiser after Sister Christian-"  
  
"I'm pretty sure Brant is Jewish-"  
  
"And I never once even truly attempted that," Harley says. "No matter what she's claimed-"  
  
"Sure," Michelle says, curls amassed and chaotically draped into a messy pony tail, "but Petey - really?"  
  
"It isn't like that-"  
  
"Hey, I'm not judging," she says, "fascinated sure - but judgement is beneath me-"  
  
"Said no one ever," Miles snides.  
  
"And you're referring to-?"  
  
"Oh, I dunno - everyone from Brooklyn to Queens. You know, Felicity Jones, Ganke Lee, Jessica Drew, Flash Thompson-"  
  
"Eugene called me a judgmental bitch-?"  
  
"More or less-" he says.  
  
"Oh, when I get through with that little shit - he's gonna wish that his parents had gone through with that move to Long Island-"  
  
"As fun as that would be," Harley comments, coming to face the girl directly, "you're one more detention close to being suspended-"  
  
"And Uncle Aaron would never forgive you," Miles adds. To which Michelle sighs to.  
  
"Yeah, you're probably right- he's still mad at me for last weekend."  
  
"Plus you are a judgmental bitch," Miles then says.

And Harley doesn't need to see the way in which Michelle had crooned, marking her elbows into the hilts of his collar bone. Earning a pained squeal of surprise from the taller teen.

...

  
  
The muffin had been placed delicately - its size taking a good portion of the desk up entirely. Even in comparison to the overbearing U.S. History textbook sitting halfway across the corner edge.  
  
And Peter had looked up to him in dismay, his eyes magnituded behind the familiar dark frames.

  
  
"What's this?"  
  
"Uh, a muffin?" Harley says crookedly, "I know you said cupcake, but it's close enough."  
  
He then makes to sit besides him, the chair barred to the seat as he dramatically drops to take claim of the space. "That has to count for something, right?"  
  
"That's Harry's seat."  
  
"There's not a seating chart-"  
  
"You're not even in this class," Peter says.  
  
"I always skip fourth period - so Mr. Roger's won't mind if I actually attend for once. Even if it's the wrong time of day-"  
  
"Don't you have English right now?"  
  
He shrugs just as a man with peppered blond hair enters, Harry Osborn adamantly in stride just a few students behind him. And they're both equally tall in truth, though anyone with an eye would have never given Osborn the time of day if their instructor had been the offered course for dinner.

  
  
"Ah, nice to see you for once, Mr. Keener."  
  
"The pleasure is all mine," Harley says, teeth and all - rounding to face Mr. Rogers from his seat, "and may I say, your usual attire of khaki and old man tie are looking fabulous today-"  
  
"Ah, _flattery_ \- the sure way to get me to overlook your obvious attempts at staying. Bold move."  
  
Harley nods, and turns back to Peter. With their instructor now digging into his bag for what Harley assumes is his daily itinerary.

  
  
"See? Chris loves me."  
  
"I'm pretty sure his name is Steve. And he's probably just tired of you."  
  
"Likely," a third voice supplies, causing the two to turn about and face - the still more definably physique-d, and broader shouldered - Harry Osborn. "And you're in my seat, Keener."  
  
"There's no chart," Harley repeats to Harry, blinking up through his lashes. "And I got here first."  
  
The other doesn't respond, choosing instead to gawk at Peter with a look that easily reads as, _'is he really pulling this shit with me right now?'_

  
  
"He did kinda get here first," Peter then says after a moment. Surprising even Harley, let alone the likely adonis-ed heir to a four year college football scholarship. "And technically there isn't a chart..."  
  
"Are _you_ being serious?" Harry asks.  
  
"Mr. Osborn," Mr. Rogers calls, standing head at the very end of the classroom, "would you kindly find a seat so we can begin?"  
  
"This is my seat-"  
  
"Mr. Keener has already vacated that spot-"  
  
"He isn't even in this class-"  
  
"I actually am," Harley says, "just not this period."  
  
"And I'll take what I can get," the man says with a small sigh, "believe me, the miracle is real - and I'm insisting you either find an open chair or come earlier if being sat by Mr. Parker is so exceptionally important to you."

  
  
Harley simply brims, elated as Harry stalks by, his demeanor upturned as he sulks to the very back of the classroom.

  
  
"I'm probably gonna regret that," Peter sighs with a bit of a side eye.

And Harley isn't sure to which he is referring to. He, himself - being that Peter was resenting the likelihood of his incoming teasings - or Harold fucking Osborn.

If the latter, than Peter better be speaking lightly metaphorical. Else Harley may need to assure that Harry regrets making Peter regret a single thing in life. Let alone the fate of a chair and its accommodating desk mate.

  
  
"So what are we studying this week by the way?"  
  
"Are you serious?" Peter asks.


	13. In Outer Space

Harley waits for Peter after class, the bell fresh in mind as the passing period between fourth and lunch begins.

  
Today, he had actually gone to History - sitting in on the exact same lesson as Peter's first. Even Mr. Chris - er, Mr. Steve - Roger's had done a double take, his eyes full of potential and questionable betrayal at having had seen him twice in a single day.

"If this is some kind of cruel joke-"

"No," he had assured the man, arms raised in a clear cease-fire type of amendment. "Parley - really."

Truth be told, Harley hadn't any reason to skip today, nor any day - but particularly today - since Peter's class had been across the way of this same exact floor. Creating ample time for him to stalk and stand just outside of his classroom.

"Not today," Harley overhears, ears perking to the sound of Harry Osborn's voice. And its unsurprising, to know that the football player shares many classes with Peter. It'd certainly explain their study dates and all.

But unlike that morning, the other hadn't seen him - squandering any chances of a second round to their earlier squabbling. Though he's purposely avoiding looking to much of anything, so it isn't at all surprising.

"Harry-?"

"I said not today," the jock repeats, his jaw ruefully set with a low brow as he marches off from Peter.

"Okay," the boy says, stopping just out of Harley's own reach. Looking every bit dejected, with a tinge of yellow to his face.

He then rounds, and spots Harley at his place by the door.

"Again?" He asks - disbelief heavy and just as subject-ical as Mr. Roger's earlier suspicions.

And Harley wants to laugh - his quip of 'this is your own fault' ready for the taking. Instead, however, his hands dig into his pockets, and he sheepishly finds himself asking, "what's up with Mr. Star Athlete?" The caring over such a thing nonexistent by way of the subject, but in proxy to Peter's clear distaste for whatever it was that was happening between he and Harry.

"We were supposed to study today," Peter says.

"Again?"

He nods. "He has a test coming up. But I guess today isn't good for him anymore."

"Well," Harley then says, "guess that means that you're free then."

"Which is cause for celebration why?"

Harley grins - essentially reminding Peter of a Cheshire Cat, his upper torso adamant in leaning into his own personal bubble. Another distaste-ment that Peter properly allows with only a small detracted quirk of his own lips.

"Let's go off campus," Harley then says, voice trying for a seductive lure.

"Right now?" He nearly squeaks.

"I promise to have you back before class. No one would ever be the wiser."

  
  
Peter, clearly, doesn't take to the vow lightly - the sheer pressure of the possibility of getting caught settled and ready for him to toss up on a moments whim. Like vomit. It'll taste of vile - he knows - and disloyalty above regret. But Harley is still grinning brilliantly - and the pressure is clearly balanced within him. Needing only a single deciding factor to tip the scales in his favor. Or against. Whichever...

"Come on, Darlin'." Harley whispers, still feeling the need to press closer to the boy.

"Fine," Peter groans - his ears radiating warmly against the white walls he's been nearly braced against, "but stop calling me that."

...

True to his word, Harley does return Peter before the final bell of the passing period - a hole in a chain link fence being ample in their mutual success.

"The Baseball team uses it all the time," Harley had assured him before. The uncertainty of being out on the pitch mount - sandwiched, and stretched away, from between the gym and science building - measured on every bit of Peter's face.

And all in all, it had been relatively easy - and not as daring as one would have had expected. Course, to Peter, it had meant worlds larger than that. An adventure that went against every bit of cultivated obedience drilled into him.

"We're gonna get caught-"

"No, we aren't," he had assured, his body already halfway within the open gap of the fence, "see? Simple. Just come on through, then we sneak outta the tree line-"

"And through the parking lot?" Peter had barked, hands fisting and snaking around the slants in the bars, "that's insane-"

"You have a very odd definition of insane, you know that?"

"Trying to down play this isn't helping-"

"I'm not downplaying a thing," he had said, "come on, I promise. No one will see you."

And again - after the theatrics - it had actually been quite simple.

"I'll see ya later, alright?" Harley beams, the last of his steps planting his stance just outside of Peter's very next class.

"Yeah," the other nods, a lemonade drink in hand - it's mainly black exterior slashed with a red no entry sign and two slightly slanted white pupils, "that was fun. And stupid. But mostly fun."

Harley nods, the laugh fleeting as he leisurely leans in to drink from Peter's cup. His own being empty, and already tossed, by the time they had returned to the school.

"Next time," he says around the straw, "we'll go somewhere closer, but the lemonade at Wilson's is the shit. And I'm a slut for chimichangas."

Peter flushes, but gives a feeble thumbs up before he's turning round with his cup in hand.

"Next time," he agrees.

...

Harley's dad is halfway down the driveway by the time he arrives home. School having let out a half hour before.

Though his face is pressed and devoid of any thought once Harley had taken to looking. The expression only shifting once the man had turned to regard him himself.

"How was school?" He asks. Though it isn't by any means asked in earnest. Really a habitual ruse of parenting that Mr. Keener had deemed worthy enough to maintain. The argument stemming that, at the very least, he had tried even when the answer to such a loose minded question sprouted little else but-

"Same old, same sold," Harley says, then - as if taking the car into account, "where are you going?"

~~To get groceries. Though when had his father ever brought home anything other than beer and the faint trail of cigarettes?~~

~~...well, last he could recall - 2007.~~

"Just need some air," he answers, glancing back to the house for a breath of a second, "she's still upset about her gnomes."

At that, his father turns back to him - a question marked without intent of verbal assessment. And really, when had he ever followed through with his questionings either? Without firstly being inebriated, that is. Liquid courage and such.

"That sucks," is all Harley says before he's back onto his board, dismissing his dad with a light, not at all there, wave. And its disrespectful, and inappropriate - though as always, his father allows it and simply peels off. Without so much as a glare, or even an offered finger, for his troubles.

He'll come back, Harley knows - once the sun has gone - just to pass out in his room, to routinely begin again the very next day. Maybe he'd even bring up the disrespect, ~~perhaps those stemming as far back as that last trip to the grocery store.~~

  
  
"Harley."

  
  
"Yes, mother?" He calls, withholding his place, and attention, by the door. Taking the ample time to lock and secure it. A scene that plays similarly to that of his arrival home last night. The only difference being in the amount of light still present to bask against his reflection in the glass.

"Do you know what happened to my gnomes?"

"Last I heard," he says, "they were in the mud-"

"They were on the table this morning."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Harley-"

"I was too busy looking for the nonexistent food," he says, rallying and finally bidding her a direct line of sight. Her person being found not at the table as he had expected, but by the island that marked and led into the kitchen. "I would go get groceries if you would just give me the money."

"Its a little tight these days," she says, "we're trying to work it out right now - but with the move, and the deposit-"

"You're new _boyfriend_ can't help with all that?"

The woman, to his delight - creens like a squirrel caught outside of its home. Her eyes beady and focused, thoughts ever moving and changing as she wonders whether to risk the game or to seek refugee by scurrying back up and into the tree.

"Is that what this is about-?" She asks. "What did your father tell you?"

"Nothing," Harley says, "he didn't have to."

"Oh, I'm sure," she says with a whisk of her hand, "right. Even so, this is my mess, not Carl's-"

" _Carl_?" He repeats by way of a giddy resound-ment, " _Carl_... What a fine name - for what I assume is a fine and perfect gentleman."

"There's no need for that-"

"No, no, I mean it. _Carl_."

"Stop it," she snaps, "he's a good man."

"Have I said otherwise?"

She chuckles - with a cluck of her tongue - as dark cerulean eyes cater to his own.

And it's not very unlike her - such a look had been gifted to him many times before. A sour expression that holds a flame of irksome indisposition. As if there's a judgmental opinion always wanting to be said there. Something that even she knew to be too cruel of a thing to be truly expressed.

Which is why she had always tried to hide it.

"He's already offered to help me arrange my apartment," she starts again, "- unlike your father - or you, for that matter."

~~"Why would father even help you to leave?"~~

"Why isn't he helping you pack?" He asks.

"He's busy," she says, "believe it or not, most men actually work more than just a handful of hours. And don't have ample time to drink until dusk-"

"Wouldn't want to risk perfect Carl seeing the actual mess in person is what you mean," Harley retorts, "he'd might start asking questions then. And we certainty can't have that."

"Honey," she berates, tone calculated and removed - a trained short of speech that files alongside the now tired 'how was school?' sentiment that his father is alien enough to think actually matters - "I wasn't implying that you-"

"Yes, you were," he laughs, "just as much as I purposely smashed those fucking things. 'Cause you know what, _mother_? You are leaving a fucking mess here, and I'm sure you know that. But by all means - continue to pack up the nicer parts of your life and just leave all the trash behind. I'm sure you and _Carl_ will be perfectly happy together."  
  


She hadn't continued any further than that, nor had he thought she would. His mother may have felt, and thought, a great many number of things - especially in regards to her loveless marriage, but never once had she granted him way to see or understand them.

She, neither his father, ever spoke to Harley about adult matters at all. And feelings were apparently just as fruitless. Negative or otherwise. And were meant to be sheltered to oneself - relenting only once the kettle had begun to boil over.

  
  
In ten minutes time, his bedroom window had been unlatched - and he had taken to the side gate. Where the lack of gnomes to break had been troubling and disappointing to him. Course he had slammed the gate for good measure, announcing his departure which would go uninvestigated either way. But it had been the principle of the thing.

And what would life be without principles?  
  



	14. Now - the Truth Is...

The white columned home had stood neat and dreamlike in comparison to his own - massive in a New England sort of way that screamed of old money. Like a setting for a Fitzgerald novel. Possibly the very same home to that of the airhead blond who had earned the greatest affections from Leonardo DiCaprio himself.

Even the yard had proven tasteful, its small hedging's of cordial greens dotted with what looked to be delicate pink stars.

  
  
"Hello, Mrs. Stacy," Harley greets, trying for his best appearance and sound. Though his demeanor is off, condemned by the sheer amount of power used to drive forth his arrival.

"Harley," the blond woman greets with pearlized teeth, "what a lovely surprise, how are you?"

"I've been worse," he concedes with a low grimace. Thoughts only succeeding to save face by then adding, "your garden, it looks even better than the last I was here."

"Leten roses," she smiles, putting a name to the aforementioned stars, "they've had a good season. I imagine you're here to see Gwen?"

He nods. "I tried to call, but she wasn't answering."

"Sometimes I wonder why she has a phone at all," she teases before motioning for him to follow inside.

And the décor, just as the outside, is standard white, formal and pristine as the children she had raised. Gwen being the eldest, and only daughter, of four.

But its oddly comforting the same - not at all cold or high maintenance to the point of superficiality. Livable, would be the best way to code such a winter white display. That, and enchanted-ness. Though the latter is typical, with the first being of actual surprise.

"Gwen, darling," the woman calls to the stairwell, "you have a visitor-"

The steps are quick - with Mrs. Stacy taking to the back room of the house, leaving only once Harley had met her own shared smile.

She had always been kind to him, even against his faults. Such as the lack of mannerisms and his choice of presentation over average hoodies and flannels on top of basic bare tees. Her only viable warning to his personal choices had been over a single established rule. His board, no matter the reasoning, was never to be brought into the house. Which is why, every time, he had placed it out of sight besides the porch before ever having knocked.

"Harley," Gwen greets rather surprised. Which yes, suppose she would be. It's been years since his last appearance in the Stacy household. And they haven't spoken, or seen one another, since yesterday.

"Hey," he returns awkwardly with a misplaced shuffle of feet.

Gwen, thankfully, is still mainly put together from the day, her trademarked black band still adorning her blond hair. Though she's lost her shoes since arriving home, and has stepped into fluffy pink slippers. At least, he reasons, she hadn't been dressed in comforting attire just yet. Then he'd almost start to feel guilty at having had disturbed her.

"Are you alright?"

No, he wants to say. But the sounds of her mother are still noticeable from the room beyond them. Her movements sounding of early preparation work. Dinner, perhaps?

"Can we talk?" He asks. And she nods - still looking quite perplexed. Though it's a soft frame, and she's trying to be careful as if a sudden word or look might set him off. Which, again, yes - she'd certainly expect such a thing as that. How often had he stormed off in their past the moment she had tried to open and discover what was neatly tucked away within him?

"Sorry for the mess," she says as they enter her bedroom. The door being set widely - an official rule placed there by Captain Stacy himself.

"You're room is never dirty," Harley chuckles, "what? You got mismatched socks sitting somewhere?"

She smiles, truly genuine-like, the look sharp and nearly flirty, though harmless in rooted truth. For Gwen isn't playing a game of sorts. It's just her eyes. A trick of the light that makes either sex stop to ponder for a moment as to why she would even go as far as to gift them attention at all.

"Shut up," she giggles, "now what's up?"

"God," he sighs, "you and Peter have absolutely no tact." Then- "To the point," he continues in spite of the roll to her eyes, "always. And see? You're making the same face he does-"

"You came all the way here to talk about Petey?"

"No-"

"Good," she says, "'cause while I enjoy boy talk - he's kind of on the line of the do not think or touch rule-"

"Whys that?" He asks.

"You're deflecting again-"

"Ya got me." He says. And he settles down on the floor, his spot taking root against the back wall adjacent to the doorway. Legs tucked and flushed against his chest. And though he doesn't say it, the selection is clear, so Gwen mirrors him in turn. Falling to the plush carpet with her own body being propped up by her vanity mirror.

The bed, for reasons, is off limits. And she's allowing the distasteful troubling's for it to go unexamined. For now.

"What is it Harley...?"

"My mom," he starts in a neutral tone, "she's - well, you know. Starting over and all."

"Right," she nods, "still packing?"

"Almost done," he says. "We - I...- broke some of her things. Just some garden gnomes. You remember, those ones outside by my window? Yeah, well she - god, she just made this fuss about me knocking them over. Like she cares about them. And - I don't know, she's just taking everything and leaving..."

"So you took it out on them?"

"I guess," he says. "You know, she even packed the kitchen. And there isn't any food in the house, I mean I could do it myself but... I don't know, and then my dad is still acting like my dad."

"Is it bad?"

"Not to the point of completely blacking out anymore," he says, "sure he gets annoying, and starts bickering, but its not like before. He's not pissing himself, or punching holes in the walls... Still, he just drinks - and... just forgets that I'm there. He doesn't even look at her."

Gwen nods, her hands leveled in her lap as she graces the floor with her attention. Which is fine, because Harley isn't even trying to reach for her. Instead inclined to the bulletin board that rests over her desk...

"Have you thought of asking to go with her?"

~~She doesn't want me to.~~

"She hasn't asked me to," he says. "And she use to be the one to pay attention, so..." He finally looks to her, "she's choosing not to offer."

Again, Gwen simply nods - though this time she's measuring him directly. Just as him. With pity that curls and disgusts within Harleys own fragile heart. And its this level of distaste that gives him the strength not to cry. Not that he wants to. Or that he needs to.

"I'm sorry," she says from her spot. "I wish - I wish things could be different for you. They shouldn't be acting like that - or treating you this way. It isn't healthy, and you don't deserve it."

He laughs, the sound harsh as he tosses his head against the wall, "what if I do? Maybe this is what I get - for everything. Karma, you know? I mean, I've had it good for so long. What's a little divorce gonna do to me?"

"No," she says, "no, Harley. Just because your life may be more than some doesn't mean that what you experience is any less hurtful. Divorces are messy. And parents, no matter who they are, should be there to protect you and love you. What are you meant to feel when those who are meant to give you unconditionally are treating you like you don't matter?"

He sighs, with his head hung low - though tears are only theorized. With his irises still only a vague sort of misty-eyed sorrow.

Even, in the past, when he had felt his lowest, he hadn't ever cried in front of Gwen. Not once. Not even when a fight had escalated into violence - with Harley having had been foolish enough to bark back at his father. The fist raised to his mother but gifted to him in a drunken stupor.

He had gone to Gwen's home with a bloody nose that night. Though still, he had forced himself to remain in control. Her hands soothing as she had cleaned his face of blood, and words washed by way of her own crying.

_"I love you..."_

"Maybe it'll get easier from here," she says, the doubt trying for hopeful though sounding much like the fairytale in which her life had seemed to resonate from. Which isn't fair - 'cause a fairytale he himself had lived for many years. And yet the truth was just that. Behind every part of what looked to be perfection had in fact been a life of loneliness and misguided - often misdirected - resentment.

And she couldn't ever truly understand that...

"Maybe your father, without her," she continues, "won't need to drink as much. And at the very least, it isn't as before. Still not great, but-..."

~~At least that night had never repeated itself.~~

'Or maybe he'll simply drink himself to death,' he thinks, much like his uncles had.

  
**_"You want to end up like Roy?" His mother had once asked his father, the peak of yet another argument at its fruition, "drunk and stupid enough to sleep on the railroads - or Mark, spitting up blood and living only another month on machines-?"_ **

"Maybe," Harley says. If only to console her. And Gwen doesn't come to him, though she does lay a hand on his shoulder once the two of them had risen. And it isn't anywhere close to what he wants. But neither does he know what he wishes it was instead.

It's strange, in truth, to feel like a weight has been lifted by speaking of such, but finding the aftermath unideal. As if the puzzle isn't at all complete because one piece has been forgotten or lost entirely...

"Harley-"

He looks, again, trying to decipher that very want - thoughts unproportioned and racking against his mind as his heart makes a leap against his ribcage. And again, he finds that pull - the same longing that lingers at the back of his mind, trying to coach him into buckling and allowing himself to feel raw and vulnerable. Or simply just - something at all.

_-but he hadn't ever cried in front of Gwen. Not once..._

"Harley-?"

He doesn't think - and shoves past that very swelling, pulling at last to once again shove against his emotional baring's, and surges to crash his lips against hers. And it's wrong, and sloppy - though, still, he continues to try for it. Wishing to want it - wishing for the answer to that unknown question to be there.

To be her.

"No, Harley, no-" she mumbles against him.

And he relents, easily, and bends once she's shoving him backwards - her fists raised and determined to strike if needed be.

"I know-" He quickly says through the flarings of his nostrils.

"No, you don't," she says. And she's every bit of upset, sure - but it isn't in seething anger, and she isn't scolding so much as telling him as if he's a wayward misguided child - and not an adult man who needs to be taught the morality of complete, and utter, consent.

"You need to stop-"

"I'm trying-!" He shouts, "you think I like feeling like this-?"

"No," she says, "I know you don't - but that isn't the problem. You need to stop thinking that you can just forget everything by always looking for _attention_."

He stops. The motion of unmarked emotion passing him over - looking as if she had physically slapped him into quiet submission.

"You tried to with me," she continues in his absence, "- you succeeded to with Michelle, Felicity - even Liz-"

"I-"

"No, Harley, no," she repeats, "no. I get that sometimes it's easier to let things be. But using others to deny what you feel will never grant you the happiness that you're looking for."

"...you're right-" he says after a moment. The tears straining more than ever to pool and cascade down his face. "T-that was stupid of me... I shouldn't have - I shouldn't have kissed you..."

"No, you shouldn't have," she nods. "But it's okay-"

"No," he says, "it's not. None of this is. You're right. About everything - you always are... I'm - I shouldn't... I should go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, it's a little more than two weeks since I last updated. I'm appalled at myself, but I fell into the season.
> 
> For one, I was able to have a special event for some wee little ones to celebrate since Trick R Treating was practically banned this year. Rest assured, we followed protocol as they were having fun. And second, I got wrapped up in a weekly giveaway contest that kept me awake most nights to the point of exhaustion that I couldn't bare to even think of writing.   
> Atlas, here is an update.
> 
> As mentioned before, I had wanted to include a Halloween chapter - and may very well do so - just later than expected. Oh well.
> 
> I hope many of you were able to partake in some activities for the season.


	15. A Rule - Can Bend

His kicks are weak - the low rhythm of momentum bounding him forward only a few feet at a time. A propelling method that steers him towards a still then unknown destination.

Though which, he knows, is in league with his morning route to Midtown High.

  
  
Still, he hadn't come to an initial stop at the sight of the campus. His board crossing several more turns and searching down a handful of blocks before coming to a main intersection.  
  
And it wasn't until a florescent light had appeared that his mind had helpfully supplied a destination to his steps. Though it isn't until much later that he'd argue and say that he had known all along as to where his heart had been carrying him to.

  
  
Harley, given the circumstances then, had been mainly calm once the bell had announced his presence. His face removed and unsound, but far from unpleasant and unapproachable, as May had greeted him by the door.

"Table for one?" She asks.

To which he nodded to, assessing her clear understanding of his overwhelmingly imbalanced nature. Her eyes ever searching and knowing behind a professionally, though forced and inclined, smile.

But she's far too pressed by the handful of customers about her to settle and seek that scaling - instead motioning to a back table, where - "your server will be with you shortly."

  
  
"Hello," a petite redhead then greets thereafter. A girl who looks rather underdressed, and trying for professionalism with a neat bun and a frilly white blouse. Though her failure isn't entirely of her own doing, her face merely being a cry of superficiality. As if she had belonged to a billboard rather than a diner. And is clearly here by misfortune or miscasting alone.

"My name is Mary Jane, and I will be your waitress for the time being-"

"Time being?" Harley asks.

"The other guys on break," she smiles, slipping into what Harley presumes is a closer match to her actual personality. "But I can get you started with anything you like."

"Coffee," he decides, then - "no crème, but some sugar would be nice-"

"Anything else?" She asks. And she's clearly only one of two servers on hand at the moment. Meaning that May has three workers tonight if 'the other guy' was apparently on break. And yet looking round, Harley could clearly measure out how understaffed they actually were. Even with the third. The dinner rush being especially exquisite tonight.

  
"Just coffee. You seem to have your hands full, so if I decide to order anything else than I'll bother the next guy."

  
The girl, Mary Jane, laughs, readily joyous, and curtly nods before dispersing. Trailing eyes only minimal, though there long enough to make a lasting impression. Green, and jade-like. Which is every bit as beautiful as an actress of an old Hollywood film. Though she looks to be older than he is. Possibly a college student. Still, her interest had been piqued enough for her eyes to linger on him.

And what a distraction that linger could provide...

  
  
Ten minutes had passed by the time his coffee had arrived. And his attitude hadn't gleaned in the slightest. It had recessed, if anything. The feeling of inadequacy and sorrow pulled front and center as the words spoken to Gwen earlier rebounded and echoed.

It proved a tad comical how one recounted moments in life. Almost as if viewing a reel of the event and not an actual first hand account.

He could very well picture his own face, after all - reciting every line. The angle acute as the light had drifted in through the curtains billowing away from Gwen's open bedroom window.

Cinematic, really.

If only his words hadn't sounded so pathetic - and his actions, ever the more damning.

"Here's your coffee."

"Thanks," he whispers, the inadequacy taking hold of his tone and clipping the word into a weak and offhanded sound.

"And your sugar-"

Again, he repeats the singular word of gratitude and wipes a hand to his face, removing the small trace of vulnerability from his eyes. The very same set of affliction that May had easily caught within him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says. Though he's still fixated away, and is trying to focus on his beating heart rather than the voice of the guy still trying to speak to him.

"You sure?"

"Yeah-" he repeats, smile brimming into fake legality as he finally turns to the other.

And it's a no brainer that the person speaking to him is actually Peter Parker. Really, what could Harley have had possibly expected? If his life was to play out like a melodramatic lifetime film, then the coincidences were bound to be offered at every turn of the plot.

How else were they to ever reach the third act?

"What are you doing here?"

"Uh, working," Peter says, as if it's the most sensible thing in the world. "Well, helping really. I don't really expect to get paid."

"Isn't that against the law?"

"No," he grins, "I don't really do every part of the job. Just what I feel like doing."

Its then that Harley takes in the boys full attire. His uniform consisting of a white button up and black slacks, a similar look to that of the previous waitress. Only Peter has also chosen to add a small bow tie to his collar-

"Nice monkey suit-"

"Oh," Peter flushes, his hand immediately reaching to his neck, "y-yeah, I know the tie is a bit much-"

"No," Harley then says quickly, "it's a good look on you. Really."

And it's in earnest.

For Peter looks completely put together - and well mannered - and not at all close to the mess of a person that Harley now actively knows him to be. And such criticism is meant with the most highest, and flattering, regard that there is.

"Earth to Harley-?"

"Yeah?" He asks, finally returning to the boy - who's now sitting besides him. His blush gone, and hidden away behind a clear struggle of worried uncertainty.

"You sort of blanked out for a moment," Peter says in a short whisper, then, "are you really alright?"

"Yeah," he repeats. "Yeah...just tired. Hence the coffee."

"Right," Peter says.

He looks off for a moment, eyes clearly taking in the amount of customers still waiting to be properly serviced.

  
"I should probably-"

"Yeah," Harley repeats for the third time, offering a small nod of understanding. "Its fine. I'll holler if I need anything, Peter."

The boy smiles, and stands up as before. Dispersing with the same amount of trailing eyes as Mary Jane before him. Only Harley is most definitely left squirming by the latter. And takes to his coffee in order to silent the jitters that begin to creep up his forearms and into his chest.

...

He waits, essentially - for hours - and sits - again, not sure of what he is actually waiting for, or expecting to be found there. Though Mary Jane keeps rounding by to refill his cup, brimming with that same sort of attention that Harley feels the need to ponder over at every turn. So he stays, and toys with the idea - the wishing from before telling him to seek and try for what the girl is seemingly offering him by way of smiles alone.

And it nearly succeeds - his hand going as far as raising to signal for her attention.

"Do you need something-?"

Harley gulps, and twists to find Peter standing behind him - smile complacent, and hands readily in offering of a small carry out container.

"What-? What's that?" He asks.

Peter shrugs, face ever still delighted, and places the offering down before him. "Most people open it to find out."

Harley does so without thought, and finds what looks to be a mini fruit pie staring back at him.

"Its a fruit tart," Peter clarifies, "they're good, trust me. And its on the house."

He nods, the "thank you," given as he turns to regard Peter in earnest. His own face matching the other boys brimming and delighted smile. "I appreciate it."

"Yeah - well, you should eat something - anything - with all that coffee."

He nods.

"And... Um, I'll be off in a few - it's nearly closing time."

Again, Harley nods - though his eyes flicker to the red head who passes once more - her own face petered towards them with mildly measured interest. The look first garnered to Harley, then to Peter - and then down to the white box still encased in his hands.

"If you want - we could hang out for a bit-"

He turns back to Peter after that, finding his expression pulled back into a bashful sort of shamefulness. ~~Always ever hopeful and mortified it seems.~~ And the response to such a thing is both delusional and pitiable - albeit charming and entertaining still.

"Yeah," Harley decides there and then, "I'd like that." 


	16. You Crack the Whip

They had walked May back to the apartment building after closing time. The woman's gratitude marked in a choiced affectionate pat that she had laid to rest against Harley's shoulder. Attention drawn, thusly then, to Peter in a secondly - though far more proper and determined - manner.

"An hour," she had said without room to argue. "Got it? It is, after all, a school night."

To which - "understood," Peter had said, lingering close. His smile reassuring as she had gauged a reaction from the other.

"Good," she nodded, "-now be safe."

...

  
  
"We could have gone in," Peter says once they've vacated the lone and unnerving hallway of _'The Amazing Fantasy'_ . The night proving a far more pleasant backdrop to the impromptu arrangement at hand. "But I suppose she thought space was needed?"

Harley hums in response.

Rightfully, however, he knows the remark to be a question. Still, it's an answer of sorts - or an acknowledgment to an answer that Peter seems to surmise enough for himself.

"Right," said other continues, looking round as if possibly considering something of actual interest, "so... An hour? Not much in ways of distractions-"

"I don't need a distraction," Harley finally voices, moving forward with his head fixed and leading, but neither truly directing the same. He's more inclined and determined to make motion than actual headway. "That is - you are meant to be the distraction, aren't you?"

Peter nods, following alongside him - the path taken being met by the lamp lights running up and along the street. Passers passing all the while in small inconsequential numbers - each with their coats drawn tightly around them.

A city bus, just along the route, passes by likewise, the driver asking if the two were going to board by motion of his hand alone. To which Peter had nodded to in the negative. Greeting soft and kindly aware.

  
"I suppose I am," Peter then begins again, hands clasped behind his back, "but I might be better at being so if I knew what it is you were exactly dodging here."

He turns to Harley then, expecting a sneer - or the remnants of a counter strike to be offered - but doesn't even receive a scoff for his efforts.

"Harley...?"

"My parents are getting a divorce," the other promptly says, stopping to fall against the bench that marked the bus stop at the end of the street. Its steel frame a ghastly painted blue that's spotted with more use of abuse than the entirety of the Parker's apartment building. "-you already know that."  
  
Peter nods.  
  
"Well, my mothers been packing her things - which you also know. She's nearly done, and..."

Peter shuffles closer once the spoken words have faded off. His eyes trained and arms dangling by his sides. Hovering, in all regards, between the thought of actually moving to console or staying put. And such awareness is irritating to Harley. He'd rather have Peter make a deliberate decision than to stand so indecisively.

"I broke those fucking gnomes," he continues to the floor, "the ones I told you about - and she was pissed. Might still be."

The latter is said through a laugh, one that quells Peter to step forward. His arms, however, still diffident as that laughter calms into an unsettling whisper.

"But she doesn't get to be - 'cause..." At this, Harley makes the mistake of looking at Peter directly, his eyes ever searching over a completely delicate and softening face. A face which sits at a similar crossroads as to that of his arms.

He either wants to cry, or be angry. Not in light of him, but because of him. ~~For him.~~

Its pitiable - in nature - as with everything else that seems to dictate and steer his life. But Harley hadn't sought Peter out for pity, He hadn't sought for anyone to begin with - but... Well he had come to him in the end, had he not? And what could that even remotely imply if not a weak attempt for comfort?

Either way - as with all else that seemed to be - he had felt best to leave it as it was.

Else risk thought making it too important.

"I'm broken too," he says, breaking off and away with yet another harsh and garish laugh. Startling the inner conflict by way of discomfort - and bringing Peter even closer to his side. "A-and she's just leaving me behind. Taking only what she thinks fit."

Peter's decision is thusly made then - with his face drawing close, his arms second as they snake about him - gripping tightly around the base of Harley's back and sides.

And Harley groans, his breath of air hot as his mouth is crushed within the soft tufts of chocolate brown hair. The pitiable act of affection dauntingly intoxicating and sinful in pride.

Though he voices none of this, and simply permits the other to pull him in further than physically thought capable.

Peter's arms only seeking to hold him tighter still.

  
"S-she," he tries, stopping only once the clarity of a voice crack interferes with his thoughts. The sudden awareness of his throat constricting only silencing him further.

Such a thing hadn't occurred to him since he had been a child, after all.

And he can't recall to which argument that memory had taken place to either. But he had distinctly remembered the way in which his tiny fists had collided into the wall, his air nonexistent as the heat of anger and pathetic frustration had overcome him to point of unbearability.

And much like then, he feels a prickling raise from the restraints lodged deep within him - the cracks deepening and expanding up and along the glass frame that surely encompasses his fragile beating heart.

His hands are trembling, with fingers digging deeper into Peter - finding flesh beneath the cotton hoodie, seeking the touch and warmth - and something far more terrifying than pity itself.

Albeit a shade or two too close.

  
  
"You're not broken," Peter says, voice just as troubling as the amount of turmoil still shattering through Harley's restraints, "just a bit lost, is all. And - this is just a challenge - and what's a challenge for the great Harley Keener?"

  
  
He physically feels the tears pulling forth from his tear ducks before mentally comprehending the reaction. The leakage startling him, at first, as it trailed down the curvatures of his cheeks and onto Peter's own head.

And it was met, in stride, with yet another bubble of laughter that rose and trembled past that initial shock - echoing into the level of uncertainty and shame that cradled beneath and within even that.

"W-why are you so nice to me, Pete?" Harley asks through the tears, face still pressed and in desperate need of the others warmth. For both the strength and the cover to be left unseen.  
  
And Peter doesn't answer him, choosing instead to bury his own head into Harley's open and willing chest. And it feels natural, and surreal, with how welcoming and safe he feels concealing the smaller boy.

Though it's Harley being kept from the cold and dark weathered night. He knows, and understands this. With the pretense being only an extension to the first.

  
  
"...I don't want to go home," he then says to him, truth adamant and withstanding as he levels his chin to Peter's head.

"Then don't," Peter says, "May will let you stay if you want... I can convince her."

He feels a nuisance. Feels weak even with the amount of tears that have already fallen since he had permitted himself to shatter on the curbside. And he wants to argue, to dismiss the invitation and find another hidden place where he can find solace away from his parents, and away from Peter and his gifted abilities in disarming him. 

  
"Okay," he says instead.

And Peter surprises him still - the kiss to his forehead sweet but rather short, and all too warm and damning, and suddenly daunting-

"Sorry," he quickly mutters once Harley has pulled back a fraction to look at him, "M-May use to do that when I cried...it always made me feel worlds better."

Harley nods, smiling a fraction to make clear that the affection was taken in positive stride - and not - as Peter may have had now suspected - as a means to physical altercations.

"Its okay," he lies, nodding still.

And Peter releases him. Pleasing Harley, though further annoying him in slights. For though he preferred space on most occasions - especially once inhibited by the strains of feelings - a part of him now might have had secretly wanted for Peter to hold closer a moment longer. Perhaps even giving into a secondary press of his lips to that still aching expanse of skin just above the tip of his brows. 


	17. Shape-Shift And...

Peter's cellphone is settled between them - quiet, though audible enough for the two boys to hear through the small round speaker placed at its crown.

The position of such being just above the - not at all subtle - silvery-white SONY logo.

"We need to go to sleep after this," Peter whispers, his chin hunched into his chest as if existing without a neck. His head likewise being pressed against Harley's own due to the shared crimson pillow beneath them.

"Really, this time-"

He nods - curtly - with the screen trembling from the hold he has on the device - but remains, otherwise, silent and indifferent to the boy's speaking. His own words still not having been spoken much since returning to the apartment.

Peter, luckily, had taken reigns once returned to the Parker's home. His slipping into May's room only taking a handful of minutes before returning with spare blankets.

And Harley had been grateful, had smiled even - ready to settle onto the floor and try to end the nights events with little more worry of over-speaking.

Though Peter had introduced the idea of maintaining space together on his bed. The phone, and the promise of Netflix, being a further distraction should Harley had proven too wired to sleep.

So they had settled.

Now, two movies in, Peter was yawning - with his arms crossed and holding together in a seamless display on his chest. Which rose and flattened as his breathing leveled out into lightly sounded waves.

"You can stay up here," he then continues - the interruption a near cry from the ocean ambiance he had almost been, "if you'd like."

So again, Harley had nodded. And Peter had curled into him, mind made clear on the matter as he had attempted to keep awake for the remainder of the film.

Ten minutes after his last spoken word, however, Harley had found that the ocean had resurged once more. And he, being still on a lone stretch of shore, had leaned over to stare at the boy. Partaking, in every regard, of the calm and cordial face that fettered within the unconscious waves of the sea besides him. His own eyes following the tip of Peter's nose and onto his relaxed brow, sweeping past his temples and gravitating to the lines of his strong and sharply defined jaw. Leaving only to lay against the dip of his neck, which seemed to burrow deep into his collarbone, disappearing beneath a cotton navy tee.

His hand had risen on it's own accord then, his mind too numb to control any such movement. The itch to touch out-winning, and demanding for his ring finger to skim along the tranquil-ed canvas of the flesh exposed before him.

Course, it had been his right hand to do so.

And only after nudging against Peter's lips, had he felt the better end of a creep. The contact startling him - and driving his entire person to scoot as far back as he could. Trying, all the while, to remain - and assure that the other wouldn't feel the absence of his presence.

He had turned about then, his back to the sleeping temptation. His sorrow and guilt throbbing madly against the still aching cracks of his heart.

...and the still maddening shame of having had cried. No matter what vow he had seemed to make for not succumbing to closing himself off.

~~Foolish.~~ ~~~~

But atop of that, he felt the ever broadening development of damnation. For this wasn't at all what this was. Between he and Peter. His yearning to be such only came from his self-loathing lonesomeness.

That, and his inability to stray away from the sexual appetite of always wanting to feed on that which was easily given to him in spades.

~~Just as Gwen had chastised.~~

Which Peter Parker, for better or worse, was not.

...

They walk to school together. With Harley changed into a Midtown High hoodie that carries a distinct odor that is every bit Peter Parker. Which isn't remotely unpleasant, nor entirely pleasing in a traditional sort of fashion either.

The talking, though minimal, is just as easily pleasant likewise. Even in spite of the grogginess that's interwoven-ly kept within his irises and tone.

"You saying I'm not a morning person-?" Harley asks with an attempt at a glare. One that doesn't engender in the least - the heat and attitude of such too lacking in both strength and passion.

"I'm just assessing what's given," Peter laughs. The action and sound proving a tad too energetic for Harley's own taste. Who quickly grimaces in turn, only to then gravitate towards a small conditional smirk.

"And with the amount of evidence gathered," he continues, "I determine that no. You are not a morning person."

"No one is-"

"I beg to differ, I'm pretty alright if I do say so myself-"

"We're not talking about how pretty you are, Parker-"

"Shut up-" Peter laughs again. His stride imminent as they come to the curb along the end of the street, "all I'm saying, is that I've never seen someone come out of a shower looking more tired than before they went in-"

"Hm," Harley nods, forgoing caution as he regarded attention solely to the other, "you've never seen anyone come out of your shower at all-"

"T-thats-" he starts, "what's that supposed to mean-?"

"It means," Harley says, mustering enough clarity to reel about him, easily leveraging himself into Peter's personal bubble with a counter clockwise turn, "that you should be honored that such a good looking guy came out of your bathroom in the first place."

"That's - you wish-"

"Don't think I didn't catch you looking-"

"You almost face planted into my floor," Peter retorts. The tinting of his cheeks only proving minimal. "Not exactly a stud in the making-"

"Ya wound me, Pete-"

"Good. Bleed out. But wash and return my sweater when you're done."

Harley, for all purposes, doesn't retort in the slightest at that. Instead making a grand show of snuggling further into the gold and blue hoodie. Which is a size too large even for him. To Peter then - it must surely be enormous.

"You're disgusting," the other teen then relents, laughing once more in spite of the slights to his eyes, "might as well burn it-"

"Come on, Petey Pie - you know you love me in your clothes-"

"Stop calling me that - and again, you so wish."

...

  
  
The air seems to shift about them as they come to the steps of the school. The atmosphere of clambering hordes pulling at an untold specification that seems to gnaw at the back of Harley's mind. It's as if they're making some sort of grand statement by venturing forward together. Only no one is truly paying them any mind, nor is the moment significant in the slightest.

And yet - still - he supposed he should have known that Morales would only continue to prove to the contrary.

"Long time no see," the taller teen greets by the flag pole. The usual pair of headphones slung over his neck as he offers a wolfish grin to the two now bounding up the steps. "Dare I even say, good morning?"

"Fuck off," Harley says in earnest to the rows of teeth on display. The finger absent though scowl easily within jurisdiction.

"Alrigtie then - how about you?" He asks turning to Peter. "Good morning?"

"Good morning," the boy repeats.

"See? Now is that so difficult, Keener?"

"Eat my ass, Morales-"

"The mouth on you," he says to Harley - before then, turning to taunt attention to Peter again, "you'd think he'd know better by now-"

"I was alright till you showed up," Harley says, shrugging past - and distinctly between them. Though more or less deciding to purposely hover closest to the youngest.

"I must be special then," Miles says bemused, "or - maybe Peter here is the _special_ one- I bet you treat him right."

"Shut up-"

"No," Peter assures him. The affirming smile calm and without. "He's pretty much the same with me-"

"No shit?"

"Don't encourage him," Harley then says. "Else he'll never shut up-"

"Eh, why the long face? Or more poignantly, why the school jacket-?"

"He didn't have an extra change of-"

"None of your business," Harley cuts in, flushing a worriedly noticeable amount. Unlike Peter before then.

"Oh," the other nods, "you two have a sleep over-?"

"What-?" A fourth voice supplies, followed by a flurry of familiar limbs that immediately pounce upon the tall and lean African teen. "Wow, clean invite," Michelle continues in the same collective breath, "also, nice catch."

"I can smell ya a mile away-"

"Which is why your name is so fucking suitable," she says, "-now what gives, why didn't I get to attend the slumber party of the century?"

"It wasn't a slumber party-" Harley says.

"Orgy then?"

"Ah - ya need more than two for that-"

"And I can't have girls over at the apartment," Peter offers casually - earning a demeaning laugh from the girl still lurched like a mink coat on the other's shoulder. "At night-"

"Isn't that sort of counter productive, Pete?" She asks.

"May's old fashioned," he shrugs, "and - well, Harley was a special case-"

"Oh? How _special_ \- we talking a Prada bag or-?"

"We're gonna be late," Harley immediately cuts in - his arm reaching out to seize Peter by the shoulder. Steps ever broadening the same.

"But class doesn't start for another-"

He rectifies a stare at Peter then. One that doesn't disturb him in the slightest, just as his previous glare - though it stalls him long enough to be muted by complete and utter fascination alone.

"Why in such a hurry, Harley?" Michelle asks.

"Don't you have anybody else to torment besides me?"

"Oh, of course," she says, "but it's only 7:45 - why rush?"

"Bite the wiener, Jones-"

"With relish."

  
  
"Come on," he then says to Peter - ignoring and tugging him along by the sleeve of his arm. The quick and trying, "see ya-" a small and feeble attempt at justifying any remnants of hostility. And though both Miles and MJ meet them with a well placed wave. They're frankly wearing off-put upon faces. Masked only by their vast shared amount of humored delight.

  
  
"What was that about-?"

"Nothing," Harley says - stalling into silence for a moment. His feet ever diligent in pursuit of some hidden destination that heavily relied on space over locale. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm fine - are you okay?"

"Why?" He asks.

"I don't know," Peter says, still nearly situated in his role upon a leash, "but- stop." He forces a pause to their tracks, his arm pried free with a quick and easily efficient tug. "You've been acting a bit weird since we woke up-"

"I'm fine-"

"You sure?"

He nods - though hes looking past Peter rather than at him. And the boy makes a face to rectify that attention. His free hand now coming to claim hold upon Harley's own sleeve.

"I want you to be honest here."

"I know," he says - nodding once more. His eyes ever watching as Peter makes to retreat his touch. "I just... Maybe I'm tired is all. I couldn't sleep."

"Oh," Peter says, "'cause of all the coffee?"

"Probably."

"Maybe you should skip first then-"

"Maybe-"

"Ya could hide in the auditorium - Ms. Potts doesn't have a first or second class. And I can come and wake you up in the passing period."

"Yeah?" Harley asks.

"Yeah," he nods. "The door in the band room is always unlocked. Believe it or not, but sometimes it pays to be a geek-"

"You're not a geek," Harley says with an affectionate - yet highly contradicting - smile. One that Peter blatantly stares at in fond disbelief.

"Well, not in a bad way," he then relents, moving his hand lower to skim against Peter's wrist, which are oddly situated closely to his person.

Though he only hovers over a second too long before pulling away completely. Fingers only briefly nudging together with his. 


	18. Trick - the Past Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to anyone who cares to read this, but today has certainly been surprising. I not only received a few late gifts that I hadn't been informed of, but I had also thought that my last update for this story had been on the night before Christmas Eve.  
> Imagine my surprise when I come to learn that it hadn't, and in fact, I was ahead of schedule with todays update. (Holiday brain I assume).
> 
> So, with that in mind, the only logical thing to do is to merge two chapters into one. And hopefully by mending some narrative fixes, the chapter flows as a singular read.
> 
> Anyway, Happy Late Holidays and enjoy!

He's acting an idiot. Though then again, what else is new?

It seems as if every step of the way has been paved by the same hand of a self created problem. Never learned, and never cautioned against - even as the cement is leveled and grated into physical stone.

Instead of sleeping, which he had promised Peter to do - Harley had scoured up and onto the main stage of the auditorium. Forgoing the steps and uprooting himself by the ends of the orchestra pit.

Which currently sat leveled to the downstage flooring.

  
  
Once Harley had nearly fallen into it - the pit having been lowered to the basement doors. The means of savior being that of Gwen Stacy, who had nearly managed to toss his self over her shoulder.

"The lights, Harley-"

"What?"

"The lights," Betty Brant had thusly repeated, echoing the outcry, "when the white lights are on that means the pit is down, genius-"

"If you're gonna be in here," Gwen had then continued sharply, "then pay attention-!"

Truth be told, Harley hadn't been keen on being in the school auditorium on that specific afternoon back in Spring of the previous year. The reason then being who else but the very figure that had brought him here now.

Only Harley had been adamant in assuring that Peter Parker had known who he was then.

Though more poignantly, whom Gwen Stacy's boyfriend had been.

  
  
Rounding out, and situating his ass center stage, had always come to calm Harley in slights. The space always seeming much more grander when looked upon from beneath the curtains.

Suppose the room did hold a presence then. Perhaps Miss Potts had been correct in assessing the sheer prowess that a theater could hold. Its doors a welcoming place for love and all else that dared to cripple the human spirit.

  
  
"Theater is real," the woman had once remarked, "for an actor, you live the role - for a viewer, you find the humanity being mirrored back to you via performance. Live - and frightfully true - with no plane of glass in between to distract you."

  
  
This rarity of fondness for Peter Parker - as one could call it - then, was every bit as frightening as any human truth that she had tried to make them understand that day.

And there was without a doubt no plane of glass to hide behind - or any shield for that matter since Harleys mind had chosen to deliberately break thought. The break now proving too critical, and too dangerously close to becoming akinned to something of actual importance to simply ignore any longer.

Recklessly, this fondness had proven dire than the previous acts of flirting from before. At least that had been in jests - of a sexual nature. Which never needed to be scrutinized and or challenged upon. Sex was simple, after all - as easy as taking a wad of tissue and wiping one's ass.

This - this was ever much more than just sex. And complicated beyond any rational thought that Harley knew himself capable of.

  
  
By the time first period ends, Harley is folded into a randomly selected seat - this one being left center. And he's only just moved from the stage - knowing that Peter expects him to be settled and nestled in slumber.

So he waits - the sound of approaching steps coming within a minute after the bell.

Though, unfortunately, they're being held within a pair of pairs...

"I don't see why you have to do this-"

"Because I promised-"

"Since when do you-?"

"Harley," Peter cuts in, essentially ending whatever it is that Harry Osborn had been asking of him. The brute in question coming through the access door just behind him.

Though Harley isn't looking to them in the slightest, the knowing there by sound, with his head tucked down and eyes seemingly closed and away from his current surroundings.

"Just leave him here-"

"No," Peter says. And he's closer now, the voice raising from Harley's immediate left - before crooning and coming to rest directly besides him, "Harley, wake up-"

Peter nudges his shoulder - the hand jostling him at first, but slipping into a light graze that flutters over the curve of his arm and onto his bicep. And knowing that Osborn is probably watching the movement, Harley does the unexpected - and seizes that very hold. Taking Peter close and forcing the boy to cuddle into him as if a natural occurrence.

"Harley," Peter tries again, "wake up-"

"He is awake," Harry says. To which Harley yawns against - smiling sweetly to Peter who's gone slack in his hold.

"Second period already?" He feigns.

"Yeah," Peter says. And the boy is still close - really, he hasn't tried to pry himself away just yet. So Harley only nuzzles halfheartedly. Much like a cat in needy attention.

"I had a weird dream - you were in it, Darlin-"

"For fucks sake," Harry then says, now standing before them. The movement adamant in making Harley take notice of his entire self. "He's awake now - so let's go-"

"Oh, Harry - what a lovely surprise-"

"Can it, Keener," the other says with a tug at Peter, who immediately teeters into an available space between them. "I don't see why you just didn't set an alarm-"

"Didn't think about it," he says with a second loose-handed yawn, "besides, Petey offered, so what's it to you?"

"Its inconvenient-"

"Its fine," Peter says, "and like you said, he's awake now. So we can all go to class."

"Yeah," Harley agrees, motions quick into getting him up and onto his feet, "thanks again, PeteyPie-"

"Stop calling me that-"

"Really," Harry laments, "now come on."

Osborn, in his own defense, only glares halfheartedly once more before he begins to storm off. Not really bothering in the slightest to force the younger boy in joining him. Though he seems to expect it by the way in which he tosses Peter a look once he's presented himself by the door.

"See ya at lunch?" Harley then asks, his steps keeping in time with Peter. Who's still lost somewhere within a stroll placed purposely between them.

"Can't," Harry answers for him, "we got a study date."

"Of course you do." 

...

Harley doesn't come to see Peter again after that morning in the auditorium.

Not for a lack of trying - but truly in an adamant sort of dodging by Peter respectively. At least, Harley has come to suspect it being of other boys doing. The logistics and non-coincidences too astonishing to be anything but deliberate.

At lunch time, he - nor Osborn - are found in the library. Neither the theater where Liz and Betty make it abundantly clear to him. Hell, even May had given him surprise to his asking. His appearances to the diner frequent - trips to the apartment sparingly a given.

Though it had always been the same - _'He isn't here, sorry'_.

And she would helpfully insist that he'd get in touch with him. Though if Peter hadn't answered any of Harley's calls up until now then what could she possibly do or say to get him to do so?

  
  
"Think he's dodging ya, Tiger?"

"What?" Harley asks, looking to the lone waitress bustling the small table besides him.

And though certainly a quiet sort of afternoon, there remained a spectral of littered tables most likely recently vacated from a small patch of luncheons. Possibly even a group who had handsomely chosen to take space.

"You do go to Midtown, right?" The redhead asks, the name tag conspicuously there for Harley to register in remedy. "Home of the Tigers?"

Right.

"Yes-"

"Figures," Mary Jane then says with a flip of her rag. It's destination apparently being that of her left shoulder. "The Kids year probably too-"

"I'm older than Pete-"

"Well, I suppose that's a little less embarrassing," she then laughs, "though still. You're such a baby. I need to learn to deduce before I flirt."

Harley, in lieu of not knowing what to respond with, simply nods - and easily releases a sigh. The retreating form of May still in sight, though attention drawn thusly to a new set of wandering patrons.

"She knows where he is," the girl then helpfully adds, her looking to the woman's back just as direct, "I imagine she's insisted to his ignorance over such a pretty boy though-" She stalls, another set of laughs relinquished in a matter of seconds, "ya see? I never learn-"

"Do you know where Peter is?"

"No, I haven't seen him since the other night. Sorry."

Harley, once again, sighs - and falters into a leaning position, his shoulder braced to the glass wall that gives view to the city life outside. And it's just as light. With the passers only a handful greater in numbers then the attendees looking to be served.

"He was with a blond though, if that helps in any way," Mary Jane then adds. Her own attentions contrived to the vast amount of silverware that she's collected into a secular gray tub. "Pretty cute. A little pristine. Definitely not his type."

"Gwen," Harley remarks. Then, "you'd think I'd be smart enough to ask her-"

"She a friend of yours too?"

"You could say that-"

"Oh," she says with a turn, "girlfriend? Are you playing some sort of game here?"

"No, no," he flushes, "uh - ex. Insistently so. And he's her bestfriend."

"Ah," she nods in agreement, now resigned to her duty as before, "so a different sort of game then." She smirks - looking every bit as fruitful as a joyous fox out to prey upon a defenseless rabbit. In a way, she sort of radiates that very same fire that Michelle is rumored to pillage the town's with.

"Games are fun - time consuming too. Eventually we gotta show all our cards though. Right?"

"I suppose," he says.

"You don't strike me as the type to give your hand though," she then continues after a thoughtful pause, "neither fold. Quite a predicament."

"Sorry, but what are you going on about?"

"Call it intuition," she says insistently, her motions carrying her to the next adjacent table, "or a reader. I like reading. Just as much as a good game. All I'm saying is that if you really wanna speak to the Kid then be prepared to play your hand. Ya gotta keep trying if you wanna get the jackpot, Tiger." 

...

"I haven't seen him," Gwen Stacey says to him upon his asking. Her demeanor open though in focus to the orange booklet within her hands.

She had been sitting beneath a tree when Harley had found her the following day. The means of reading being that, of course, of the script for the Winter play.

"At all?" He asks once positioned into a middle-earthed squat. One that isn't dignified in the slightest. And perhaps may come to expand the small tear that has situated itself at the intersection of where his pant legs meet.

"Aside from rehearsals - no-"

"Rehearsals?"

"He's in the play," she says with a turn of her eyes, "they started on Monday. Honestly - you never listen-"

"But Betty-"

"Hates you," Gwen aids, the smile forced though berated with a factual sense of glee, "and Liz, before you ask, doesn't - but she's inclined to be on Harry's side of things-"

"What the hell does this have to do with Osborn?"

"Harley," she berates with a baritoned groan - a tone that mediates somewhere between surprise and 'are you a complete idiot?' basis of scrutiny. "Why do you think Peters avoiding you?"

"So he is," he says, "I mean - I was suspecting that he was, but-"

"Jesus, how-? Nevermind. I know _how_. But really?"

"Can anybody just ever give me a direct answer here?"

"I could," she says, "and yet, why should I? You haven't returned any of my phone calls yourself. Last I saw of you, you were at my house - devastated, I may add - and now suddenly you seek me out only to ask for Peter? And you have the nerve to wonder whether or not _he's_ been avoiding _you_?"

"You just said he was-"

"Harley," she repeats with an unkind laugh. The very same that seems a shade of consequence to his very birth and entire person. "You are impossible."

"Yes, I am aware," he says, "but...I hadn't known what to say to you after and - well, I've been thinking-"

"That's dangerous-"

"I'm serious."

"Yes, so am I," she says. "Is it about your parents again?"

"No, well - yes, also - but... just - why is Peter avoiding me? What did I do?"

"It's not-," she sighs, displacing her readings in favor of providing arrant attention, "of your doing exactly. At least, well - its - he's trying to save his relationship, Harley. You can understand that, can't you?"

"His relationship...?"

"Yes, I mean it isn't by any means official but Harry-"

"Again, what the hell does this have to do with Osborn? What gives him the fucking right to dictate what Peter does anyhow?"

"Harley-," Gwen proceeds to attempt once more - the tone and consequential shade advocating as before, "you do know that they're dating, right?"

" **What?** "

"Again," she says, "it isn't official, but Peter had been hoping that it could be- you...you really didn't know?"

  
  
"Parker's gay?" 


	19. Send - My Love

Perhaps hindsight - or foresight - whichever the commodity may be, is a gifted virtue. A treasure that isn't simply there and known at ones birth, but granted and given to those in the warrant to be honored. If Harley had been born of royalty, then surely he would have been bestowed with three gifts by a trio of fays. That being beauty, grace, and common sense. Or whichever other word meant being privy and sensible to things and the other people around him.

But atlas, fate had only kinded him with a single attribute. Forever cursing him with dashingly good looks severed only by skewed foolishness and a vast amount of idiocy.

"How was I supposed to know that?"

"Well it isn't exactly a secret," Gwen says with a boisterous laugh, "everyone knows-"

"Since when?"

"Since ever," she says, "honestly, it's Peter. How could you not know?"

"...I thought he was - I thought..."

"You thought what?"

"I thought he was in love with you," he says. The words nearly a weight in and of themselves. And out loud, it sounds similar to a joke. Though a joke it hadn't been since first he had laid eyes upon the other. Peter, after all, had always been handsome to some degree - boyish, albeit absurdly charming, and a threat to anyone with eyes.

"In love with me?" Gwen repeats - the joy ever damning as her lips are pulled to their wits end, "you're joking - you mean all that time-? You were jealous? And you even thought me capable of-"

"He's fucking adorable-" Harley laments, "how could you not? He's funny, he's smart, he's sweet-"

"Sounds to me as if I should have been worried-"

"I'm serious," he says, "why else would I have acted that way?"

"I honestly just assumed that you hated him - quite possibly even because he was gay."

"I didn't actually mean it - and the fag thing only happened once-"

" _Excuse me_?" Gwen asks, her tone immediately clipping and falling flat. Wits pulled and severely tethered as she rose to stand over him. "You called him _what_?"

"I-," he faltered as a shiver ran up the base of his spine and into his hairline, "you mean he never told you?"

"No," she barks, " _HARLEY_ -"

"I know!"

"No," she repeats, the syllable punctuated as if a slur in itself, "you are such an _**ASS** hole_-" The last word is resounded with a kick to his abdomen - her bootie heels meeting right up and between his pelvis bone-

"Don't you ever use that word again-!"

"I k-know," he attempts as before, clutching into himself from where he had fallen into the grass. Air seemingly scarce, though words urging to play on. "I-it was a long time ago - and I wish - I wish I could take it back - and - and you're right, I am-" and, " _fuck_ ," he relinquishes with a hardy groan, "y-you've been watching your mom's workout videos again, haven't you?"  
  
"I have," she admits - the yearning to strike once more crucially evident by the current state of probabilities.

"Look," Harley then continues in face of those resentful odds, "t-there isn't a damn thing I can do or say to convey how sorry I am - especially to Peter. I hate myself for everything I've ever put him through. But the same can be said of you. I mean, how can I even properly apologize when I now know how much of a jackass I really was - with everything? And maybe not even that. Because I always understood, I knew. I just hadn't cared. But now that I do - how do I fix it? Everyone wants me to do better - I want me to do better - to be better. But every time I try I'm just reminded that I'm no good at this. And that everybody still thinks the worse of me-"

"I don't-"

"Yes," he says, tremor found - though eyes resigned not out of hurt or pity but comprehendible truths, "you do. I see it on you just as them. That look. The way you always say my name whenever I remind you of the person I was - without even meaning to. And how can I even be upset by that? It's my fault. ...it's who I am."

"You're right," Gwen then nods. The silence before having been brief though sufficiently torturous to the now rooted ringing within Harley's own head. "I do still think small of you at times," she reiterates, "because of our history - of what you've done. But you're also wrong. Because that isn't who you are. And I don't think you incapable. ...neither does Peter."

He sighs.

"I just don't know how many times I can say I'm sorry before it starts to lose all its meaning."

"Harley," Gwen says, tone matter of fact, and dangerously pressed with that near judgmental stride once again, "it may have already reached that point. But I do understand that you're sincere. You've apologized more as of late than our whole relationship combined."

"And I'll continue to do so," he chuckles in spite of. Mind finally made into moving to regain his composure, "if it helps to clear things. If its needed."

She laughs. The bell tower awakening as she permits her hand to lightly migrate against his cheek.

"...there's a party this weekend," she then says through the small caress of his face, "Halloween themed - my house-"

"I hate costume parties-"

"I know," she says with a press of her eyes, "but... It's an unofficial cast bonding session. And," she pauses in slights, though her touch is no less inclined, "Peter will be there."

"Osborn too?"

"Possibly," she nods, "but would that realistically stop you?"

"...I don't want to come between them if that's what Peter wants - but I need to talk to him, Gwen."

"Why?" She asks in earnest. Her face ever searching in it's own attempt to rationalize anything that may be physically mapped there. And perhaps her hand is placed upon his face to do just that. The guide essential. The touch seeking.

He shrugs, "...I'm not sure. I - it has something to do with my hand-"

"Your hand-?" She repeats.

"Yeah," he nods, "I have to show my cards, whatever they are... I think if I just talk to him then I'll know. And if he doesn't want to talk to me again than I want to hear it from him."

The caress is maintained a while longer - with Gwen deliberately staring in perpetuated intrigue - and Harley continuing to press forward and into the depth of her warmth. His face discoloring over a large and brimming smile.

"I hope you know," he says, direct and unsound, "in the most innocent of ways, that I really do love you, Gwendolyn. I never stopped."

"And you'd think I'd know better," she then teases, "but you're still my best friend, Harold. And I love you even though I'd very much love to strangle you too." 


	20. On A Wire...

The echo is only slight. Yet the weight is there and present as if a commonly placed piece of furniture.

Harley's home, if he could call it that, is mostly barren, with most furnishings having been taken by the truck that is no longer parked outside.

His mother had left without a final word to him. Her physical farewell marked the previous afternoon, but his mind too honed then on Peter's disappearing act to care in the slightest. Now, with the same echo petering out, Harley couldn't help to think of anything but the absence of his mother - and father, who has had little appearance himself since the last they had met upon the driveway.

~~Nearly a week ago.~~

His takeout, which consists of shitty Chinese cuisine, is gingerly placed onto the lone coffee table in the living room. The only source of seating being the lounge chair that his father had been adamant in keeping. Still, he forgoes the chair and simply takes to the floor. Bag undone, legs crossed, and hunger partaking.

Looking round, the scene unfolds much like the third act of one of his favorite films. The Grinch having left nothing but wire and a few crumbs of food that were too small for even a mouse. His mother, in that sense, was very much like the creature from Mount Crumpit then - with the theft being that of her own family instead. And without the saving grace of being condemned with the painful heart ~~condition~~ affliction - saving all and righting the world in the end.

Unceremoniously, Harley kicks onto his back, legs splayed beneath the table and food a forgotten heap of unwanted onions and bits of rice.

Normally he'd venture off to his room after eating, most often than naught he'd even eat within his own room.

Today however, felt different...

In truth, his mother had once or twice threatened to leave his life. The handful of times being when she had undergone the throws of a passionate rage. Ones that Harley often chose to be left unexamined nor stored altogether. Voiding them to the point of non-existing. As one opted to do when dealing with a mocked narrative of perfection.

Though once, when he was thirteen, Harley had forgotten to mop the kitchen, the cleaning of all else having been done by his hand that day. Course his mother hadn't noticed the rest and had berated him for the floors, the threat there and given between the usual repertoire of him being a useless son who never did a damn thing for her.

She had been minced about work or another that day - and his father had towed the car the previous night, hence her being absent and him having to clean for the weekend. It had been but of one of a thousand things that he'd forgotten - still, the words had come.

Other times, he'd simply say the wrong thing without meaning to. And again, she'd lash out. Not like his father, but never in justified innocence either.

It became a sort of dance over the years. With him learning to tiptoe about her ways, always thinking it best not to set her off. Rarely had it sparked within the last two years, but she'd certainly have her moments. Still he never imagined that her going would actually ever come to fruition. The threat becoming reality.

Surely, this time - it hadn't been of his own doing though - and yet she hadn't considered him in her wake, had she? Perhaps then, she was leaving him just as much as his father. Perhaps this time, her harsh stir of " _I'm moving out, and you can go about your fucking life as you want_ ," had truly proven to be the end all of every time before.

Harley was just as much to blame for the broken home that now belittled him then.

He had taken and taken, and hadn't properly learned enough to handle and maintain.

Soon too, his father would venture out - perhaps in life, perhaps of his own drunken ambitions.

Harley makes to reach for his cellphone - the motion familiar and trifle. If only he could just call...someone.

Gwen, Miles, Pe...

He frowns, the name flashing upon the screen in terrifying letters and a lone pie emoji.

A part of him wants to dodge the dramatics and try for his voice again - the other, which has still been nestled in that absurd area of uncertainty, just measures the weight of his cellular device and ponders why it has to be dramatic to begin with.

Peter was - is...still an anonymity. The affection and fondness as careless and reprimanding as ever.

He was beginning to suspect himself a masochist. His yearning to seek more issues than those that had already befallen his home too evident to ignore. His family life should have proven to matter the most. And yet to think it - to think of it, what could he do or change? His mother had left. And his father proved too lost in his own doings to even consider anything of him. So what then aside from continuing on as he had been? His grades, after all, were fair, his time to consider life after Midtown had already been secured in that of Empire State. So what had he to decipher?

Nothing.

Nothing aside from Peter Parker, that is.

Because with Peter, Harley wanted some sort of...security?

That had been the answer all along, hadn't it? Or partially? He wanted to hold onto what they had begun, to see where things could gradually grow.

With Peter, the guarantee and knowing what was to come was still needed to be fought for. Else, he too would become a lone echo within Harley's life before ever getting a chance to ricochet about the room. 

And that he wouldn't - couldn't - have.

Not when possibilities were still left to be found. 


	21. Lift You Up

"Hey, guys-"

"Oh," Michelle says, looking to Miles from beneath her book. Which is comically tossed aside upon Harley's imminent arrival. "Did you just hear something?"

"It sounded an awful lot like my old buddy, Harley - but that couldn't be him. I'm pretty sure he's dead."

"Really?" Harley says, taking his seat before her. His lunch tray weakly clattering to the tabletop in his efforts.

"She's still in mourning," Miles greets himself.

"Hence my whole black wardrobe," she aids.

"You don't believe in color-"

"Black is all colors," she says, "and I wear white-"

"Which is the absence of color," Miles states.

"Shut it," she says, "now what brings you here, Keener? Has that firm pole finally left your boy cheeks?"

"Look, I'm sorry-"

"Yeah, I'm sure," she cuts off, her boots suddenly making an appearance upon the table between them, "which is why you're gonna kiss these bad boys-"

"No-"

"I may consider forgiving you if you do-"

"No," Harley repeats. Though he's grinning. And she's mirroring him - with her hair is stringlets, which perfectly frames about her face in an imperfect sort of satisfaction.

"Its probably for the best," she then concedes, "I stepped in some dog shit this morning-"

"And you put them on the table?" Miles asks with a scowl. His unused fork already probing against the offending leather.

"I'm sure the contents of my shoes are better suited for consumption than the shit they serve us here anyway - which is," she continues at a higher octave, "at a lower grade than what the government serves the federal prisons-!"

"Anyway," Miles interjects, turning back to Harley with a toss of his fork to the other, "so a little birdie told us that you're going to Stacy's this weekend. Also - also, that you're still looking for Parker-"

"Which fyi," Michele says, "ya could have just asked me to help you sneak into rehearsals."

"Brant wouldn't have appreciated that-"

"Betty can suck my dick-"

"I didn't even know that you were in the play," Harley says with a sigh, forgoing his tray of food altogether.

"She's only there to be with Liz-"

"Ah, got it-"

"Got nothing," she says, "I happen to love the arts. Here I am a duck, but soon I shall become a beautiful swan- you nontheater goers wouldn't understand."

"Oh, I understand perfectly," Miles says mid bite of what looks to be some sort of chicken sandwich, "birds of a feather flock to vagina-"

"They sure do. Just ask your mom."

"That's your aunt-"

"Only by blood," she teases. In turn tossing her own sandwich at him. "So what are you going as?" She then asks turning to Harley. "Costumes are mandatory."

"I have no fucking clue," he says.

She grins. "Awesome. Cause I have the perfect costumes for us."

"I am not doing another couples costume with you," Miles berates with a groan. "One year she made us do Alice and the Mad Hatter, guess who was Alice?"

"I didn't get a chance to shave my legs," she says with an unconcerned shrug, "sides, this is different. It's not a couples costume, it's a ménage a trois costume."

"Whatever," Harley says, "just no skirts."

"That is perfectly doable."

"We are so gonna regret this-" Miles begins.

"Shut up, and eat your sandwiches, bitch." 

...

"God," Michelle flourished with a broad whipping of her black cape. The 7-Eleven glass door slamming shut behind her. "I just don't understand what could compel a person to be such a total bitch to a stranger."

"Maybe she was abused as a child," Miles had mused around his slushy - his own purple tailcoat catching upon the ends of the wind.

"God, I fucking hope so."

The car door opens in a flurry, the bag of treats and bottles being tossed to Harley in quick succession.

"What happened-?"

"Just some bitch talking shit," Miles answers from his place behind the steering wheel.

"She's lucky I didn't fuck her up-"

"Calm down-"

"I'll calm down when I'm good and ready," she says, stealing his slushy, "god, fucking bitch."

  
  
"So..."

"What?" She asks around a straw.

"Nothing," Harley says, shrugging off her look, "just-"

"Why aren't you dressed yet?"

"See, about that-"

"What?" She repeats.

"Did you have to get such tiny shorts?" He asks, lifting up a small cut up pair of black jean shorts. Half of which are stained in a blood shade of red.

She smirks, "did you see the matching vest?"

"Yes," he flushes, "and really nothing else-"

"You can button it-"

"Only half way," he sighs, forgoing the fight further by removing his shirt and jacket.

"You're going to look so fucking hot."

"At least you don't look like a pimp," Miles adds, already pulling out from the parking lot. "You could have given me a shirt too by the way-"

"You guys have zero imagination," Michelle groans, her knee length black boots appearing on the dashboard. With her own wild and mesh skirt fluttering about the leather ends of her corset.

From Harley's seat, he can spot the yellow bat emblem. Which only continues to mock him as he shimmies out of his own jeans and into the hardly even there piece of 'jorts' he had been given.

"Your hammer is in the trunk by the way-"

  
  
The hedges of Gwen's home are littered with lights, the lawn constructed and meticulously covered by hundreds of jack-o-lanterns and an endless array of fog. Heading to the door, two 12 foot skeletons stand - there arms crooned ever so slightly in as if to greet and guide the trio to their destination.

"You think this is where the party is?" Michelle asks, slipping into a lacey black mask. Her hand already reaching out for the door.

"Well, you know what they say - there is magic in the night when the pumpkins glow by moonlight-"

"Thanks for that, Hallmark," she says turning back to Miles with a sneer.

Harley, taking heed of a moment unbothered, inhales sharply and follows after - his own hands still tugging down the ends of his tattered shorts. His vest now partially buttoned with his blond mess of a hair adorned with dirty black and red streaks. Which Michelle had so graciously applied via a spray can in the car.

"Hello!" Gwen greets, her person by the door by some miracle of the imagination. Face delighted and unbothered, but perpetually stained in an attentive shade of green. Her black brimmed hat is also comically wide, with the pointed tip fashionably fastened to curve over her left shoulder.

"You guys look great!"

"Why thankyou," Michelle beams to the _witch_ with an exaggerated curtsey, "at least someone appreciates my work-"

"I still don't understand what you were thinking," Miles berates, swapping at the lone green curl that had fallen over his face. Yet another _enhancement_ forced upon him by Michelle.

"Well," she begins, first to Miles - only to then address Gwen, "here was my line of thinking. He's a goddamn fool, Harleys a slut, and I can easily kick both their asses."

"Oh my god, yes!" A fifth voice supplies. The appearance of a sparkly blue ball gown appearing from atop the stairwell.

And if Harley had dared to voice it, then Liz Toomes had looked absolutely beautiful. Her face done up in glamour and hair curled and painted an attractive dark tone of blonde.

"You look so hot-"

"Aw shucks," Michelle says to the girl, "and you are as _popular_ as ever-"

Liz, still eying the other girl a moment longer then turns to regard Harley and Miles. Her face only faulting in slights before brimming as before.

"Well well well, I see those abs sure haven't changed one bit Miles - and there's hardly anything left to the imagination now is there Keener?"

"You guys look great is what she means," Gwen adds with a laugh.

"No," Liz corrects, "you both look like snacks. Some people are certainly going to have to keep their hands to themselves." Again, much as the small fault - a look had been given to Harley. Amusement there, sure - but something much more probing. And wonderfully challenging to a degree.

"So actual snacks, and drinks are outside," Gwen then continues, "and if any of you want to crash then feel free-"

"I might take you up on that offer, my pretty," Michele teases with a hand draping onto Gwen's shoulders. And for her efforts, the normally blond girl flushes - at least, through the makeup it had certainly appeared as if she had.

Once she's taken aside, another guest having just entered the Stacy residence, Harley immediately turns to Michele.

"What the hell was that?" He whispers.

"What was what?" She smirks.

He pauses. "God. Please tell me that you didn't finger her too."

"My word," she mockingly gasps, "Mr. Keener, a lady does not kiss and tell."

She then ventures forth with a wink, the cruel and flirty affair ended by another swoop of her cape which announces her exit.

Harley, by then, is left standing by his lonesome. Miles too having been picked off - or taken by an adventurous need to mingle sometime within the last minute.

For a moment, he simply glides - and smiles to the familiar faces who take in his attire. His large-cartoony hammer flung over his shoulder as he wonders which empty place to possibly gravitate and linger into. There's an open seat upon the couch, a vacated spot in the dark corner, and a glass door that leads out onto the patio where a group of fellow seniors are partaking in a bong that's being passed between them.

With another step, Harley halts - his palms itching as a sense of alarm trickles past his head and down to the seams of the pockets that are strategically framing his ass.

He turns...

-and none other than Peter Parker himself is standing there - not nearly a foot behind him. His eyes having just been caught staring south before having then been plucked to meet his attention.

Harley smiles, and the boy's face deteriorates into a hellish scape that scorns and clashes against the vibrant yellow of the inner lining of his hood.

He's dressed in robes, Harley notes, with a gray sweater vest that lays over a white dress shirt and a matching yellow tie.

It's stupidly and irresponsibly geeky and adorable at the same time.

"You're a Puff," he says firstly. His hovering to the other boy having been made somewhere within their mutual silence.

"And you're Harley," Peter says, face still ripe and mortified from having been caught staring, "Quinn, I mean."

"Yeah, I suppose that's the joke," Harley says. As before, he's urging to pull at his shorts - though they only realistically rest slightly higher above his knees as well any other pair of boxer shorts. Still-

"You here with Michelle then?"

"And Miles - we're kinda a threesome."

"Oh," Peter flushes further, then - "t-that's neat."

"Not actually, Pete," he clarifies, the need seeming to come from somewhere behind him.

"I didn't mean it like that-"

"No, no," he continues, "I know. Just - don't want to chance you thinking something that isn't true. I'm...single, in every definition that there is. No more funny business for me. Straight and narrow - well, to a degree-"

Peter nods - though it's objectingly unsure and questionable.

"I just want you of all people to understand that."

"Peter."

The voice is deliberate and defining. And too casually known and expected to be anything less but intrusive and tedious by now.

Which is why Harley isn't the least surprised to see Harry Osborn making his way towards them.

"I got your drink," Harry announces, the cup peeking out from the robed arm of his own red and black hood.

"Ah, Gryffindor," Harley laments easily.

"Yeah," he says, "and - hooker?"

"Close," he nearly glares with a striking smile, "but Mr. J is my one and only, so-"

"Right," Harry nods, his free arm reaching over to tug Peter in close, "same as my _Petey Pie_."

If Harley grimaces, then it's only in fair justification. Hearing ones given name of affection being stolen and rebranded is a criminal offense.

Still, at the very least, Peter had seemed to visibly quell in distaste himself.

"Don't call me that," he immediately says. Sliding a fraction out from the others hold.

And his tone is every bit serious, not nearly as fun and flustered as Harley had always heard it to be.

"Right," Harry repeats, "well, I admire your ego, Keener. I wouldn't be caught dead in a thing like that, but more power to you."

"Harry-" Peter warns.

"Guess I'm just man enough to pull it off, huh?" Harley immediately asks in turn.

"Harley-"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I know a back handed comment when I hear it, so don't be surprised when one slaps you back, Osborn."

"Stop," Peter tries once more, mainly to the former before giving into Harley as before. "Both of you."

"Sorry," he says.

"Yeah, sorry _babe_."

Harley grimaces a second time. Earning an odd tilt from Peters looking this time about.

"Excuse me," he then says instead of every other word that's currently wrapping about his mind. The sheer magnitude of the Merry Go Round having a hell of a time in its magnificent turnings. "I told Miles I'd be his drinking buddy."

Peter only continues to stare. So Harley bows out. His usual farewell, or any farewell for that matter, lacking as he leaves the two.

He doesn't even offer so much as a fleeting glance.

Though the same trickling alarm from before is certainly following him out. 


	22. Every Time, Everyone

Miles Morales leans in like a scientist gauging a specimen - his nose hovering close though uprooted into the air, and body swaying forward - past, and well into, the personal bubble that Harley had crafted around him.

He teeters, taking an obnoxiously hard whiff before asking - "what's wrong?"

"Nothin," Harley immediately says from his seat by the poolside. His red solo cup empty and left to float in a small roundabout current beneath his legs.

"Nuh-uh, smells depressing as shit- I leave you for what, an hour - two tops? And now here you are moping - Michelle's been looking everywhere for you-"

"A poor job then," Harley openly shrugs.

"Hey, come on, man. Don't be like that."

He sighs. "Sorry-"

"Sorry," Miles mockingly repeats, pulling at his own slacks to dip his legs into the wading pool himself, "sheesh - why such an apologist now? It doesn't suit you my guy."

"Sor- ...well, fuck - what do I say then?"

"Well, for starters you can tell me what's bothering you."

Harley sighs as before, staring at the bright lights beneath the surface of the water - his hands gripped tightly down by his sides, as he focuses in on a presumably dead wasp by the pools edge.

"Peter," he then starts in earnest. "Parker. That's my problem."

"Oh," Miles nods, looking off somewhere beyond them - most likely to the group of girls swimming at the opposite end of the pool. Bodies glistening, and stripped down to their underwear. "Yeah, I guess everyone knows about that now-"

"Of course they fucking do."

"I meant about Osborn and him," he says with a sip at the can in his hand. A seltzer kind of substitute for beer that Harley can't stomach for the life of him. "I doubt they know about you being in love with Peter and shit."

"Good," Harley nods with a frown. Then- "Who the fuck said I was in love with him?"

"You did?" Miles directly laughs, "I sure fucking hear it enough whenever you breathe or even think twice about him."

"I am not in love with Parker-"

"But you're certainly in something with him," he assures with a pat to his shoulder, "face it man, you got it bad. And don't look so constipated about it. Sexuality is a spectrum. Now sure I haven't ever felt the need to dip into foreign waters myself, but let's never say never here." With that, he relinquishes a wink and purposely plops his hand down and into Harley's lap. The touch and motion teasingly light.

With- "You wish," being Harley's quick reaction, followed by the forceful detachment of his arm.  
  
"I really don't," Miles then laughs in turn. "But come on. Let's cease the moping, and pull your head out of your ass. And who knows, by then maybe you'll have the balls to face Peter and tell him how you feel."

"For what?" Harley then finds himself asking, the sheer absurdity of the conversation doing nothing to brighten his mood. "Hes...hes with Osborn."

"Osborn is a fucking prick - and not the fun kind either, besides Peter's been into you since the dawn of time-"

"W-what-?"

"What?" Miles repeats.

"What did you just say? About Peter?"

"Oh, he's been in love with you since he was a freshman," he says casually, claiming the last contents of his can, "everyone knows that."

And with a quick flick of his wrist, the seltzer is tossed aside - claiming a space in the exact current that Harley's cup had resided within. 

"What do you mean everyone knows that!?"

"Its as I said," Miles nodded, face undisturbed by Harley now looming over his person.

"And - and no one thought to tell me?"

"We thought you knew-"

"Why - why would I know that?"

"I assumed that's why you hated him," he says with a pick to his face - his nail flaking a bit of green from his skin, "If it wasn't for my loving and peaceful nature then I would have dumped your ass long ago for being such a homophobe."

"But," he then continues - before the other could properly continue again, "I eventually came to the conclusion that you actually hadn't known, but by then it didn't matter. Peter just wasn't around you as much without Gwen."

"And now?"

"Well, you were spending a lot of time together," he begins again, this time kicking his feet - stirring a current to life and displacing their drinks in the pool, "and I just kinda assumed that you would come and tell me when you were ready-"

"To tell you what?" Harley asked.

"That you lost your back door card obviously."

"I - that's- first off, who the hell is _we_?" Harley asks instead - a fierce blush sweeping across his cheeks as he does. "As in, _we_ thought you knew?"

"Oh - um, Brant, Liz, Michelle, myself," he pauses, "Ned, Gwen-"

"Gwen!?"

"Please," Miles laughs, "she was probably the first."

...

  
  
By the time in which Harley is face to face with Gwen Stacy for the second time that evening - the girl is looking to him in near fright and surprise. Her eyes, by then, glossed over - and face looking every bit as tipsy as Harley inwardly feels.

How much had he partook by the time in which he had settled by the pool? He couldn't exactly remember himself. Though certainly he had crashed into three separate groups in a round of shots only minutes apart - his first act of instinct upon having had left both Harry and Peter.

"Gwen," he greets, trying as he did to subside the rapid beating of his own heart.

"Harley," she returns, a bow granted for reasons unknown.

"Can we talk?"

"Of course!" She then pipes, excitement suddenly elated. "Here - now?"

Harley looks about, the stragglers clear but too caught in their own pressings to linger or focus in rapt attention to their current conversation.

"Is it true?" He then asks, leaning into her. The whisper crisp and light - and easily masked by the music playing from the inner room.

"Is what true?" She asks in confusion.

"That Peter's in love with me," he says.

She then halts, her previous excitement dwindled like a candle subjected to the outside winds.

"Who told you that?"

"Does it matter?" He asks. "Apparently everyone already knew - including yourself."

Whatever signs of alcohol consumption previously present, were long gone by the time in which Gwen had seized his hand and had led him off and away from the main room. The quick movement earning casual looks by those around them, but eliciting little else.

Behind them, the door had clicked easily - the garage a spacious and vacant change to the intimately large party laid behind it.

"Is it?" He then asks again, pulling his arm free.

The girl, still perfectly done in green and dark shadows, whirls around. "I was hoping you'd never find out-"

"So you knew that I hadn't known-?"

"Of course," she says simply.

"But why?" He asks, "why not tell me?"

"Because," she starts, "Peter... He's been doing better. He started to like Harry, and-"

"What makes Osborn better than me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why is he carried in such high regard when he only ever seems to be a douche to me?"

"He knows," she says, as if it settles anything - her face piqued in a lame attempt to be as neutral as she can, "everyone does. Peter's been obsessed with you for so long. Even when all you gave him was such terrible - terrible - _affections_." She stalls, that neutrality turning into a fine shade of judgement "...he deserves to be happy, he's such a good guy. But - well, the heart wants what it wants, right? Even if it's only-"

"Me-?" He finishes.

She nods, "and I'm not saying that to be terrible - but it's as you said before, that was who you were- And I've just been trying to make him see reason."

"So," Harley tries, the singular word drawn and thoughts trying to properly reconvene as one, "what you're saying...is that Harrys jealous - of me?"

"Wouldn't you be?" She asks with a complete turn of her head, "let's not pretend and say that you're not extremely attractive in the least - and yes, certainly its the alcohol talking here, but come on, Harley. You're entirely easy on the eyes. And Peter is already smitten, so what's Harry to think when suddenly you start to feed him attention? And Peters..."

"Peters what?"

"Conflicted?" She aids, "I already told you that he's been trying for Harry for so long, and now Harry wants to make it official but Peter has got it into his head that maybe - just maybe you're starting to show signs of reciprocating."

"...and what if I am?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said," he sighs, trying to maintain any ounce of courage that the truth may have just now decided to completely bestow upon him, "what if I am. As in, maybe I've actually sort of grown attached to the idea of him... And I. In that way."

For a moment, Harley is unsure whether or not Gwen has properly understood him. Or heard him in the slightest. Hell, he's hardly following his own confession to begin with.

And she's already looking to be properly off balanced, and removed - as if her very programming had spammed out.

"Is an idea even worth it?" She then asks, surprising him. "As usual, you sound so unclear - ...and if your intentions are only to gain momentary attention-"

"No," he affirms, "it's not. I...I'm no good at feelings. You of all people know that. But - but I've found something here. And I don't want to lose it before I can even try for it."

"And what's that exactly? What are you trying for?"

"Him," Harley says, shrug felt even in spite of him not giving one, "he makes me want - not to be better, not for him. But for myself. For me to be worthy of him. I...he makes me feel something again, Gwen. It's hard to make sense of it, but he does."

"God," she relents with a frustrated groan, "why now?"

"I guess," he says, "it started with him - and then you... If I hadn't been such an asshole from the start then - well, it's just like you said, he's such a good person. And, while it probably wasn't supposed to happen - it did."

"And as always," she returns, "I want to fucking strangle you...but - with that said, you're certainly on your way to becoming a better man yourself."

  
  
"...so if you want to do what I assume you're going to do then you have my blessing."

He smirks with a deeply released sign of tension - his natural face falling into place as she meets him with a hesitant smile.

"Thanks," he says, "-but how about we keep that whole better man on the dl? I'm all about low expectations. What are you, flirting with me?" 


End file.
